


Close

by tiptoe39



Series: The Skype Dates 'verse [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Car Sex, Fireworks, First "I love you", First Time, Fourth of July, Ice Skating, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Madison - Freeform, Meet the Family, Meeting the Parents, Photography, church
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-09 00:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7780063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’ve been together for a month and a half. Now they need to learn how to be close.</p><p>A Madison/Fourth of July fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jaradel for the excellent beta work. If you have a spare moment, go check out her fic. It’s fabulous.
> 
> A couple of story notes:
> 
> 1\. This is set in the Skype Dates ‘verse. The most pertinent detail you need to know from that is that I effed up the timing and Jack’s now visiting July 4-6, not July 3-5. The 6th is the holiday. There are a couple of other references to characters and conversations from the Skype Dates, but otherwise this should stand on its own.  
> 2\. Being a Patreon subscriber, I know a handful of spoilers about the upcoming Madison comic. I have done my best to write around some of them, and have deliberately gone in a different direction than others. So if you see something that doesn’t mesh with your understanding of current spoilers, that’s probably on purpose.

Bitty didn't expect to get quite as much sleep as he did last night.

He expected to be up all night planning, anticipating, worrying. But the sound of Jack's voice, the soft touch of his eyes on the screen calmed him, and he is still feeling the kiss Jack sent him with lips and fingertips. The kiss is a promise. Sure as the sunrise, he'll be here tomorrow.

Not tomorrow. Today.

Bitty sits up in bed nearly vibrating to the feel of that word. _Today_.

The sun shines a July Fourth smile onto his bed, and Bitty stretches like a cat beneath it, limbs loose, body an odd combination of ease and fluttering tension. Oh, today. So much is going to change today.

For a month, he and Jack have been living under a tenuous agreement. _Don't talk about what we could be doing if we're closer. Let's not torture ourselves with things that we can't have._

But today, starting today, Jack will be within reach. Physically, right there, close enough to touch. And, Bitty thinks then with a sinking heart, they'll still have to wait. They'll still have to be patient.

How will they manage it, when Bitty could barely keep himself together for a month of having a dozen states between them? How does he exist in the same room with Jack and not touch him?

He's being silly, he tells himself. He spent a semester and change being in the same room with Jack, wanting him, knowing he couldn't touch. But that was before. That was when he didn't know if those touches would be welcome. And he knows -- Lord, for better or for worse, he _knows_ they're wanted now. He's seen the desire trembling in Jack's eyes.

It's going to feel like a million magnets pulling their skin together. And still they're going to have to resist.

He presses his lips together and tries to imagine it. Jack, right there a few feet from him. Walking beside him in the airport. Being in the car with him for an hour -- oh, God, the whole hour it takes to drive east to Madison from the airport. How does Bitty not reach out and take his hand? How does not lean in and whisper those words he's been bursting at the seams to say?

Just because he can, he mouths them, looking out his window into the rising sun. _I love you_ , he tells the sunrise. And it's true. How could he not? He's been waiting for this sunrise a good long time.

* * *

Jack's plane gets in around 1 p.m. Which means Bitty and Mama need to leave here about quarter of twelve, leaving only a few scant hours for the endless preparations they need to make for the Fourth of July picnic today. Mama refuses to let him come along to the grocery store ("If you're there, I'll be in that market two hours, Dicky!") and assigns him instead to wipe down all the patio furniture and haul the long tables and extra folding chairs out of the garage to arrange on the porch and across the front lawn. By the time she arrives, the yard is as tastefully decorated as if a wedding planner had brought in an entire crew.

From then on, it's a whirlwind morning of hauling meat to the basement refrigerator, dicing potatoes for salad, putting the finishing touches of fresh fruit atop the pre-baked pies and somehow getting everything into the refrigerators in an odd game of picnic Tetris. Mama is in rare spirits, laughing and chirping Bitty in her own Mama way. ("Oh, now, Dicky, hurry up with that egg salad, or you'll have to do it after you get back. And then Jack Zimmermann would see you with your hands covered in mayonnaise.") Bitty laughs and relishes the moments, both for what they are and because they make the time pass that much quicker. It's 11 before he knows it. A half-second later, it's time to wipe the mayonnaise off his hands, hurry upstairs, and brush his hair furtively one more time before piling in the car to go meet Jack.

The quick passage of time in the kitchen is made up for in spades by the endless hour in the car. Traffic is brutal. Bitty stares at the line of red lights that trail from here to the horizon and frowns. He’s all wrapped up in his feelings about Mama coming with him to pick Jack up. She's insistent upon it, which he resents. But he also feels guilty for resenting it, because Mama *is his best friend, and because she thinks she's doing him some kind of a favor. "Oh, honey, you don't want to be driving in this mess. Let me handle it and you two can talk," she says. He can't correct her, and he hates that he can't. And he hates not knowing what she'd say if he did.

He falls silent and looks out the window as the landscape passes him by. Fields yield to farmhouses yield to strip malls and then to suburbs, and then they’re in the thickly settled outskirts of Atlanta, waiting at red light after red light. Planes roar low above them, shaking the car's frame. Bitty's ears fill with the sound. On one of these planes, lowering toward them from cloud-high, Jack is sitting. Sitting and waiting, like Bitty is now. The distance between them is disappearing. Their two existences are coming close enough to kiss.

His pulse starts thundering in his ears as they park. Ironically enough, it's Mama who checks her hair and face in the mirror at length before getting out of the car. Bitty offers her a half-hearted laugh -- "You know Jack's dad isn't going to be there, right?" -- while furtively checking his own face in the car window’s reflection. What if he doesn't look as good in person as he did over Skype? What if Jack takes one peek at him and has second thoughts? What if _he_ has second thoughts? What if whatever magic has been cultivated between them drains away like bathwater once the anticipation is gone?

And then he gets Jack's text -- _just landed. Taxiing to the gate now_. -- and that worry is blasted into a thousand pieces. Jack's here. Here. On the ground in Atlanta and they're mere yards apart. Bitty's concern now isn't that the magic's gone -- it's that there'll be so much of it that he'll vaporize.

His fingers shake as he presses a _see you soon_ into his phone. Mama looks back at him from twenty feet ahead in the parking lot. Bitty shouts an apology and jogs up to join her.

They line up outside the security gate and wait as a thousand people who aren't Jack file out in clumps. Bitty's heart stands on edge every time he glimpses a dark head, or a solid frame. Every time, he thinks for a moment the wait is over, and every time, it's not.

He starts to come up with improbable, horrific fantasies. Jack's fainted in the men's room. He's been delivered to the wrong airport. Some hockey fan who hates the Falcs has recognized him and beat him into a bloody pulp. Worst of all, Jack's had second thoughts and is busy booking a plane back to Providence. What could Bitty have been thinking, that he expected Jack to actually arrive? Wait, is that--- no, just a tall guy with a potbelly and basketball shirt. It's not Jack. Oh, God, Jack's not coming.

And then, there he is.

Bitty's eyes fall on a familiar chin, then a familiar pair of lips. Eyes. Hair. Shoulders, body, _everything_. It's Jack. It's really him. He's here.

Jack's as tall as Bitty remembers, and as well built, but oh Lord, _never_ has he seen a smile break onto Jack's face with the width or the force it does now, when their eyes catch. Bitty's heart thumps so loudly he's sure Mama can hear it. Oh, oh, Lord! His hands are shaking. What does he do? It's Jack, Jack's here, there's no screens between them, they're breathing the same air.

"Jack," he mouths, and then says it aloud.

Something breaks. At once Jack's rushing forward, and he's rushing forward, and there's nothing in the whole wide universe but the two of them. Jack catches him, powerfully, in his arms. Bitty's picked up off his feet for a bare second, legs kicking in the air. His skin is pressed against Jack's neck. There's warmth everywhere.  "Jack," he whispers.  

He wants to stay here forever. Oh God, he wants more than this. Already. But he knows that even this is pushing it. It hurts so much, to let go so quickly, but he knows he has to. He pushes with both hands, separating himself from Jack, and looks up.

Jack's beaming down at him. A spark of joy dances between them, invisible and frenetic in the air. "It's so good to see you," Bitty murmurs, wanting to add _honey_ , knowing he shouldn't.

"Hey, Bits," Jack says. His voice is impossibly soft and sweet. Bitty feels it down to his bones.

"D-d-did you have a good flight?" Bitty smooths down the close-cropped hair above his ear. He looks at the floor, steals a glance at Jack, looks down again.

"Yeah, fine." Bitty glances one more time. Jack's gaze hasn't budged, and neither has his smile. He's looking down at Bitty steadily, like Bitty's the only light in a dark world. It's a humbling gaze, and also a little embarrassing. Anyone could look at Jack and understand his feelings right now. Anyone including Mama. Maybe Jack doesn't realize she's standing _right_ there.

He panics. "Mama," he says, not sure if he's calling to her or pointing her out. She comes forward and shakes Jack's hand. He turns his attention to her, greeting her by her first name and asking how the drive out was. She blushes and laughs like a young debutante, and Bitty takes the opportunity to just _look_ at Jack, marvel at the miracle of his presence and his nearness.

Jack is a _handsome_ guy. Not news by any stretch of the imagination, but here, in public, fully aware of his own feelings, Bitty opens to the thought like it’s a revelation. He can feel the looks from the rest of the airport, glances and once-overs and double-takes. A swell of pride takes over his heart and is chased away by a spike of possessiveness. This is _his_ boyfriend. _His_ Jack, and people can look, but only Bitty gets to touch.

Oh, God, touch. They're going to touch. Before the end of this day, Jack's lips will be on his again. He'll be able to run his fingers up Jack's arm, down his sides. The anticipation takes him like a wave under a boat, and he feels himself carried by it. Up to a peak of excitement, down to a valley of nerves. It makes his stomach a little sick, but only in the best way.

Jack’s only brought the one duffel bag, so they don’t have to wait by the baggage claim. Instead, they head straight out for the car and get on the road back to Madison. Bitty has a moment of wavering -- should he sit in the back with Jack? Or stay by Mama’s side in the front seat? In the end, he decides to stay up front. The temptation to wander his hand ever closer to Jack’s in the back seat would be maddening.

It’s the right decision. As they pull out of the airport and make their way onto the highway, chatting lightly the whole time, Bitty feels like he’s got a handle on his emotions. He’s still incandescent, glowing with the nearness of Jack to him, but he's not desperate. Not the way he thought he'd be. It's as if, with Jack's presence, his emotions filled up to the extent that they can barely take anymore. That might change as he settles in to Jack's presence. The heat might build as time goes on. But for now, just looking at him in the rearview mirror, turning back to face him and smile, is enough.

And there's a note of nerves, too. How do they do this, exactly? They haven't had the practice, they haven't choreographed this dance. Bitty doesn't know when the right moment will come. When will they be sufficiently alone that it won't be weird for him to step forward and close the gap between them? The uncertainty makes his pulse wobble and keeps him from feeling the unfettered urge to touch.

"Did you bring your camera?" he asks to fill a moment of silence. "Mama, did you know Jack is a photographer, too? He's pretty good. He took some terrific photos of the team."

"Including quite a few of Eric," Jack says. Bitty flushes. It feels funny and good to hear Jack say his first name like that.

"Ooh." Mama's tickled by the idea. "I would love to see those."

“Jack,” Bitty intones, chiding. He informs his mother, “He took pictures of the whole team.”

“Well, you’re on the team, aren’t you?” Mama’s teasing him. Bitty pouts. “Anyway, Jack, that’s so interesting. Hopefully you’ll find some nice things in Georgia to take pictures of, too.”

“I’m sure I will,” Jack says, and Bitty knows without looking that his eyes aren’t on the fields going by or the bright hot Georgia sun.

They arrive at the house without incident, and Bitty pulls out his phone to capture the occasion. He posts a picture of Jack and Mama to the top of his Twitter timeline, finally dislodging the ever-present _This boy._ that’s been sitting there. But if anything deserves to take that top spot away from a reference to Jack, it’s Jack himself.

Jack, who is _in his kitchen._ Humming with life and nearness. Smiling genially, on his best behavior, except for dangerous eyes that keep flitting to Bitty’s and away again, making promises that alight like kisses and give Bitty the shudders.

“Anyway,” Mama says at the end of a long sentence about the history of the house, “I’m sure your poor shoulder’s aching with that bag. Let me show you up to the guest room and you can get settled.”

“I’ll do it,” Bitty hears himself say. His voice catches on the end of one word. For a moment there, he was tempted to let Mama do the showing, because once they’re upstairs he and Jack will be _alone together_ and that will be the end of another era.

Jack will kiss him, he knows it. Or he’ll kiss Jack. One or the other. A kiss won’t be a hazy memory a month and a half deep. It’ll be something now, something present, tingling on his lips. A million _what ifs_ dangle on the end of that thought. Some of them are simple. Some of them Bitty can’t find the words for. He’s vibrating as he leads Jack up the old creaky stairs.

He translates the nervous energy into talk. “So this is where you’ll be staying, right here on the right,” he says, motioning toward the door. “We’re across the hall again. That’s my bedroom on the left. Mama and Coach sleep down the hall, and that door right there is the upstairs bathroom. Door squeaks a little. Anyway, c’mon in and set down your bag and--”

Hands. Big powerful hands on his waist. Bitty sucks in a breath. He’s only just set foot over the threshold of the guest room. The door’s not even closed. And, and, oh… oh, his mind isn’t working, there’s just warmth. Warmth and possession in those hands, and hot breath against his hair. Jack inhales fiercely, then lets the air out in a sigh. Bitty feels it in a huff against his ear.

“Jack.” His voice wobbles.

Not a word in return. Just a step, two, propelling him forward. Jack lifts a foot, kicks backwards like a horse. The guest room door swings shut. Jack’s face is pressed against his hair. Jack’s inhaling. Smelling him. Bitty wonders if he smells okay. A strange, awkward, fumbling wondering, lost in a maelstrom of overwhelming touch.  

“Bits,” Jack breathes, the word ruffling Bitty’s hair. Jack’s hands slide across his stomach, cinching tight, pulling. The wind goes out of Bitty. Jack’s yanked him flush against his body, back to chest, hips to thighs. It’s more intimate than a kiss, it’s closer than they’ve ever been. The kisses they shared in the Haus were warm, but their bodies touched only lightly. This is like being swallowed up. Jack’s body envelops him so well. Like it was made to hold him. Like Bitty was made just to fit perfectly into this space. His height no longer seems like an unfortunate accident. He lets out a sigh, and a little whimper attaches itself to the end.

He feels Jack’s bag knock against the side of his knees. “Oh, Jack, come on, put down your bag at least,” he says, turning. Not all the way around, just to the side, reaching out to tug Jack’s bag to the floor. His hands fit around the straps. He yanks. Jack yanks too. In another moment the bag is on the floor, strap still wrapped around Jack’s wrist, and Bitty’s facing Jack and Jack’s kissing him.

Bitty’s caught mid-gasp, holding in a lungful of air, too shocked and frankly too tangled in the strap of Jack’s bag to reach out and touch Jack back. His mouth slips open, and Jack licks at his lower lip, a burning swipe of tongue that churns up heat in Bitty’s belly and pulls another sound from his mouth. All while still demanding nothing. Just kissing, just giving. All within a moment.

Their lips part. Bitty hears the soft sound of it like a dirty thing, and he blushes at it more than at the kiss itself. He stares at Jack’s soft mouth, then up at his dark eyes, darker for the dim light filtering in through the closed blinds. “We, uh--” His lips are still moving. Amazing. He’d thought they’d died. The kiss nearly killed them. “We probably shouldn’t--”

“Oh.” Jack’s fingers leave his waist. Too soon. Bitty shivers from the loss of them. “Oh, sorry. I just--”

“No, me too.” Bitty reaches out, negotiates the strap off Jack’s wrist and frees his hand. Slowly, treasuring each second of motion and touch, he interlaces his fingers with Jack’s. “You’re here and I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe we get to do _this._ ” He nods at their hands. “I can’t believe I can actually _touch_ you. Jack, it feels like it’s been forever.”

“It has.” The electric charge in Jack’s voice jumps through his veins, setting him all alight.

Bitty tries to muster up a laugh, but his breath is coming too short. He can’t remember Jack’s lips on his. He’s forgotten the feel already. He needs more. “We’ve talked every single night--”

“Talked.” Jack’s nosing at his forehead now, pressing his lips against Bitty’s hairline. Bitty closes his eyes and lets him. “Not this.” Jack drops a kiss on his temple. Bitty tips his head back, his jaw canting upward. Jack kisses the shell of his ear. A spot on his neck. Goosebumps fly up on Bitty’s arms, a thousand little hairs at attention.

“No, no, not this,” he admits. He shouldn’t, they shouldn’t, the silence from upstairs will surely be telling, but _Jack…_

"God," Jack whispers. The hiss of breath tickles Bitty’s chin. And then Jack's fingers are there, too, running along the line of his jaw, cupping, settling. His other hand is still tangled with Bitty’s. Bitty can smell him, warmth and spice and soft smoky musk he doesn't know how to define. The smell of Jack.

He leans in without meaning to. His lips catch Jack’s again. The kiss is brief and hot as an exploding sun. Bitty goes hard. He presses his lips against Jack’s like he can kiss away the tide of sensation. He can’t. It just grows. They part, and pant for a moment.

The growl of the truck arriving sounds from outside the window. Bitty starts, turns. Jack follows his gaze to the window. “Coach,” Bitty explains. His voice is rough-raw. The voice of someone who’s been well and truly kissed. “S-suppose he’s been out getting charcoal or something.”

“You’ll have to introduce us,” Jack says. His voice is weak, too. Bitty gets the feeling he’s trying to rein himself in.

He pulls a step away from Jack, keeping only their hands locked together. Trying to help. “Yeah. Um, do you want to take a minute to settle in, and then we can head downstairs?”

“I want to--” starts Jack, and his gaze drifts over Bitty’s body, down and back again. Bitty doesn’t miss the subtle widening of his eyes as he sees Bitty hard through his shorts. He fights down an answering swell of warmth, and the urge to launch himself forward into Jack’s arms again.

“Get yourself settled,” Bitty reminds him. “I’ll just be over in my room and we can head downstairs when you’re ready.”

“I want to see your room,” Jack says, but he’s still looking at Bitty like an owl eyes a mouse.

“When you’re _ready_.” Bitty lets himself do one more thing -- step forward and rise to his toes to peck Jack on the lips -- before he darts out the door and across the hall to his own room. Back against the door, breathing hard, he closes his eyes and presses his fingertips to his mouth. Even with a hallway between them, he can feel Jack’s proximity. They’ve touched. They’ve kissed. The simple fact of all this settles on him like a revelation. He isn’t sure how to feel about any of it.

He waits patiently in his room, refreshing Twitter on his tablet and watching the comments come in. But really, he’s tracking Jack’s every movement - steps around the guest room, the creak of the bed, a trip down the hall to the bathroom. Jack’s so close. So very close, when for so long he’s been so very far away, and Bitty feels more than a little greedy for wanting him closer still.

* * *

Jack and Coach get on pretty much like you’d expect them to get on -- that is to say, famously. Within two minutes of greeting Jack, Coach has him out front helping man the grill and talking to him about football. Bitty watches from the porch and can’t decide whether he’s delighted or disheartened. He’s never been the son who could provide Coach that kind of company.

But he’s got his own place, too, in this household. Along with Mama, he sets up foil trays on the picnic tables, lines them with ice to keep the food cool, and then works steadily to shuttle casserole dishes and big bowls of food from inside to outside. Lord, and these are just the _appetizers_ \-- the pre-barbecue snacks, for aunts and uncles who come early to the festivities. Tiny apple turnovers, soft meat dumplings, chips and three different kinds of salsa, cheeses and crackers, hush puppies, vegetables and homemade dips. Bitty eyes the blazing sun and is glad the table is tucked under a tree at the very least. As he works, and worries about the food lasting in the heat, he listens to the scraps of Coach and Jack’s conversation  

“...tells me that there’s no shame in an expansion team. Besides, I’m sure you made a wise decision. From what Junior tells me, you had your pick.”

“Yes, sir, I had a few offers. But the Falconers were the right choice. They’ve been nothing but welcoming.”

“Feeling good about your chances of advancing to the playoffs?”

“Well…” (and then he’s drowned out by the _slam_ of the screen door as Bitty heads inside again. No _shame_? Honestly!)

Relatives start arriving a scant half-hour later, when the sun’s still high in the sky. It’s going to be a long one, Bitty thinks as he sets up citronella candles at the ends of the picnic tables. Not even four o’clock yet, but Aunt Connie and Uncle Sandy have brought a blanket and folding chairs, indicating that they’re clearly here for the duration and ready to camp out on the front lawn to watch--

The fireworks. Bitty almost forgot. Peter Kahn, bless his awkward little soul, offered them the use of his folks’ field for the fireworks. It’s a prime opportunity to get some alone time with Jack again, and to relieve Jack of the burden of five straight hours with his relatives. He shoots Jack a look, then sidles up to his mother, who’s chatting up Aunt Connie near the grill.

"So, Mama, Peter invited us up the way to watch the fireworks," Bitty says lightly. "Of course we'll stay for the picnic, but would you mind if we just rode up there for an hour or so when the show gets going?" Bitty's very careful to avoid mentioning that Peter himself will in fact not be there. But he _did_ invite Bitty up to watch the fireworks from his field. That part's no lie.

Mama frowns, and for an instant Bitty thinks he may not get what he wants after all. But then she turns around and touches Coach's shoulder. "Richard," she says, "what do you think about giving the boys the truck so they can go up and watch the fireworks with their friends?"

Coach nods. "Well, now, that sounds reasonable," he says, and turns right back to the grill. Bitty inwardly fist-pumps. It takes all his strength not to turn back toward Jack and grin like a fool.

The Phelpses arrive next, Uncle Teddy and Aunt Julia and little Layla, who instantly runs up to the picnic table and tries to pull the tablecloth out from under the food. Luckily, two-year-olds don’t come with an abundance of muscle, and Bitty laughs as he lifts her up and away from trouble. As such, he very nearly misses Coach’s incredibly enthusiastic introduction of Jack to Uncle Teddy.

Nearly, but he’d have to be in Missouri to miss the explosion of sound that bursts from under Uncle Teddy’s ridiculous mustache. “Well **HEEEYYYY** there young man welcome to Georgia **WELCOME** ,” he blurts, pumping Jack’s hand with both of his, his eyes bright little beads of greedy excitement. Next to Jack, Coach beams with pride, and Bitty frowns. He gets that Coach has a thing about one-upping his brother-in-law, but by all rights, if Jack’s anybody’s prize to claim, he’s Bitty’s. He sidles up to the circle and stands there, trying not to let his annoyance show on his face as Teddy continues to treat Jack like he’s the Pope come to Madison.

“So, the Falcs, yeah, the Falcs, good team, good choice, good choice,” Teddy says. He seems to be having trouble saying any word just once. “Too bad about the Aces, though, too bad, bet you would have liked to be back on the ice with your old buddy. I remember, yes, I do.”

Jack’s genial smile only budges for only an instant, but it’s long enough for Bitty to notice. He coughs and inserts himself peevishly into the conversation. “Well, Jack’s going to be a star for the Falconers, an absolute _star_ ,” he says. “I played on his line most of the year, Uncle Teddy, and let me tell you one thing, this boy will teach you a thing or two about dedication.”

“Bittle,” Jack starts.

“No, no, don’t you stop me, mister. If I want to brag about my captain, then that’s what I’m going to do.” Bitty doesn’t know what’s gotten into him, aside from a bit of illl-tempered jealousy. Everyone wants to pretend they’re so familiar with Jack Zimmermann, but none of them were upstairs an hour ago getting the daylights kissed out of them by the aforementioned Jack Zimmermann, now were they? If anyone has bragging rights here, it’s Bitty, and he’s darned well going to use them. He embarks on a long-winded story about a game in early spring that went into overtime and the daring moves that Jack broke out to get them that winning goal. And if he should so happen to mention that he, Eric R. Bittle, was there with the assist, well, then, that’s just his prerogative.

By the end of his tale, Uncle Teddy’s jaw is dropped, and he’s nodding dumbly as though Bitty’s lost him several exits back. Jack is red-faced, and Coach is staring at Bitty with an expression on his face that Bitty’s not sure he’s ever seen from him. Uncle Sandy has wandered over and is listening with a furrowed brow. Aunt Julia is chasing Layla around, and Aunt Connie is having a heated discussion with Mama about the amount of sugar in some recipe or other. Bitty feels like ought to take a bow. He turns with a flourish and goes to the picnic table to grab an apple turnover, chin in the air the whole way.

Jack catches up with him as he’s bringing appetizers back into the house and ferrying out side dishes and desserts to replace them. They step into the momentarily deserted kitchen, and Jack reaches out to touch his shoulder. Bitty bristles like a cat.

“Are you doing okay?” Jack asks. “You seemed upset.”

“I’m most assuredly not upset.” Bitty surveys the kitchen for items that need bringing out. Maybe that peach pie next.

“If you say so.” Jack’s frowning. “Your uncles are nice.”

Bitty opens the refrigerator door. The cream puffs, maybe? “My uncles are insufferable. All trying to get a piece of you. Coach, too. Lord, like you’re some sort of knick-knack set out on the mantel for everyone to play with.”

“Oh.” Jack leans forward, a smile slipping onto his lips. He whispers in Bitty’s ear. “Don’t worry. You’re the only one I want to play with me.”

Bitty sticks his face back in the refrigerator before it gets so hot he’s steaming out his ears.

Jack touches his shoulder. “Seriously, Bits, it’s okay. I’m used to it.”

“I didn’t like them asking personal questions,” Bitty says. All his flair and showmanship are gone. This close to Jack, he’s wobbly, raw.

“They weren’t--” Jack takes a moment to read his face. “You mean about Kent.”

“I was trying to help,” Bitty says. He lifts the peach pie from the counter and thrusts it unceremoniously toward Jack’s waiting hands. “Bring this out.”

Jack doesn’t take the pie directly. Instead, he reaches out and covers Bitty’s hands with his own. “Thanks,” he says. “It’s okay. People have been asking me about him for years. But thank you.”

“I don’t--” Bitty looks up at him, then looks away. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. You’re my guest, and I’m sorry you have to put up with all of this.”

Jack’s fingertips whisper over Bitty’s knuckles, the most unassuming of caresses. “I’m glad to be here,” he says. “Very glad.”

His voice wavers, just a tiny bit, around the words, and Bitty looks up again. The expression on Jack’s face right now -- it’s one Bitty’s seen so many times on the screen. But never in the flesh, never so close and so real. The tenderness there, the real happiness, breaks off a piece of his heart. It floats like a glacier in his chest, unmoored.

“Dicky, what’s keeping the pies--”

Jack snatches the pie away in a hurry. Bitty whirls back to the refrigerator. As Bitty’s mother comes through the doorway, she exclaims, “Oh! Jack! Richard and Teddy had wondered where you’d gotten off to. Dicky, you’re not making him work, are you? Shame!”

Bitty laughs and rummages in the refrigerator for the cream puffs. Anything to avoid turning around with what must be a shamefully red face. “He insisted on helping, didn’t you Jack?”

“Oh. Yes. I did.” Lord help this boy, he was not born to be an actor. He can’t even make four tiny words sound convincing.

But it’s enough to appease Mama Bittle, who pushes past the kitchen island and grabs another pie off the shelf. “Well, don’t keep everyone waiting,” she says briskly, then whirls and is out of the kitchen like a shot. Bitty hefts the tray of cream puffs and closes the refrigerator door with a sigh. Tonight is not being kind to his blood pressure.

* * *

The food’s down to crumbs and errant slices, and beers and wine are out as the sun dips below the horizon. Layla is asleep in her mother’s lap. The adults chat and sip their beverages of choice, and Jack and Bitty sit side by side in adjoining folding chairs, letting parents and aunts and uncles dote on them in their own way. Jack’s remarkably charming as he tells tales of prospect camps and playoffs. Bitty watches him with a sort of lazy contentment. The edge of his nerves has been soothed, and right now he’s just proud.

This Jack is so different, he thinks, from the Jack he met his first year. So very different from the Jack he imagines from the days before Samwell. From their conversations, Bitty knows too many painful details, enough to construct an image of a teenage Jack Zimmermann in his mind. The boy he imagines is forever trapped in a corner, crouched against a bevy of dangers that only he can see. Bitty wants to reach through the years and offer him a hand, tell him that it will all be all right.

And it is. Look at him. Even during Bitty’s frog year, Jack was tense, vigilant almost to the point of paranoia. Now, he’s open, unguarded. He’s done so much work and grown so much. And to the extent that Bitty could be a small part of all that growth, he's so very, very happy.

He glances at his phone. “Oh, we ought to get going.”

It's a little funny, leaving now, just as he's starting to relax and almost enjoy the company and the conversation. But fireworks wait for no man. Wishing a happy Fourth to his aunts and uncles, and petting sleeping Layla on the cheek, he creeps toward the driveway and beckons Jack to follow behind him.

There are folded-up blankets in the back of the truck, and Bitty finds a bottle of bug spray on the shelf in the garage. Thus equipped, he climbs into the cab and, Jack in the passenger seat beside him, backs out of the driveway and sets off down the road toward Peter's place. Jack is silent. Bitty can feel his photographer's eye falling here and there, and amuses himself by guessing what it is Jack's seeing. He imagines Jack observing the way Bitty drives, the layout of the roads and the darkening blue of the sky. Drawing imaginary frames around each image, memorizing them.

When Bitty takes a turn off the road and starts dragging the truck over muddy dirt pathways and grass, Jack grabs the passenger side handle, a little startled. "Is it okay to drive here?" he asks.

Bitty laughs. "Of course. We're going to park on the field."

"I mean-- oh." Jack looks kind of discombobulated, clutching the door with one hand, making a face as the truck goes over bumps and dips into holes. God bless Jack, for all his grit on the ice, he's still a city slicker.

When they rumble to a halt, a few feet from the lone tree in the Kahn field, Jack looks to and fro. "It's really all right to stay here? This is your friend's field?"

Bitty appraises him. Is this suppressed nerves from the family function coming out? "Honey, it's fine," he soothes. "Come on, get out and put some bug spray on. I'll get the back of the truck set up."

He eases out of the cab, hopping down onto the spongy grass. It grows high in patches, unrestrained, and clips close to the ground in others. It's not a well-tended field, that's for sure, and Bitty wonders how long it's been since the Kahns even gave it a second thought. It was kind of Peter to volunteer it for Bitty's use, and somehow he doesn't think Peter would have a problem knowing that Bitty brought a sweetheart up here to enjoy the fireworks with. He wonders how Peter might feel about the fact that the sweetheart is a man. If he's watched Bitty's blog this whole time, he supposes, it wouldn't come as much of a surprise.

He smooths out the blankets in the bed of the truck and wanders to the edge, reaching out his hand to Jack to help him up. Jack takes it, and in the instant of contact a funny sort of anticipation rumbles through Bitty's frame. They're out here all alone. That uninterrupted, unwatched, intimate time they've been yearning for begins now. Standing on the lip of the truck's bed, looking at Jack in the darkness, Bitty can sense the world trembling around them.

Jack steps up into the truck. His hand slips out of Bitty's and hovers for a moment. Then his other hand lifts. Even in the scant starlight, Bitty can see his fingers shaking.

Those hands find his waist, then his hips, and tug. Bitty stumbles forward into his embrace.

Oh, how they've ached for this, how they've needed it -- this warmth, this fullness of being surrounded and surrounding in turn. Jack's arms wrap around Bitty, and Bitty’s own hands fall tight on Jack's back, a double loop tying them together. Bitty thinks he'll choke for how constricted his throat is, how the tears of joy are threatening to spill over. Jack and him, just standing, just holding each other, is everything he's ever needed. Here, he's home. He's safe. He's complete.

"Jack," he whispers, his face pressed into Jack's chest and shoulder.

"Bits." The words, a shaky exhalation, come close to his ear. "You feel so good."

"You, too." Bitty presses his lips to Jack's shoulder. He's endlessly warm, endlessly content. Jack's arms are around him. They're out here in the evening heat, alone, surrounded by nothing but sweltering air and each other. It's perfect.

 _I love you, I love you, I love you_ sings in his veins. But not yet. Not quite yet.

"Um." He pulls away. Jack lets him go but not without a sigh. "We should. Um. The blankets."

"All right." Jack smiles at him, dazzling even in the dimness. Someday Bitty's gonna get used to those smiles, but _someday_ 's definitely not tonight. In the heat, he shivers as though someone's passed a cube of ice over his forehead.

Jack settles himself down onto the blankets, and Bitty takes a moment to enjoy seeing him sprawled out there, all loose, easy, long limbs. So relaxed, so giving. His mind flicks back to earlier, to marveling at Jack's openness and newfound warmth, and for an instant he thinks he's going to cry.

"Coming?" Jack flashes a smile up at him.

"Oh, oh, hell, yes!" Bitty sits down with great aplomb, parking his ass next to Jack on the blankets and settling in with a wriggle and a contented sigh. Jack watches him with an amused glint in his eyes, laughing a little as Bitty finally goes still. He reaches out and caps Bitty's knee with his palm, thumb running softly along the side of his leg.

"Thanks," he says.

Bitty blinks. "What for?"

"For inviting me out."

" _Jack_." Bitty means to be reproachful, but all he hears is dreaminess in his voice. "Like I'm being _so_ selfless. News flash, Mr. Zimmermann: I’ve wanted you down here for a good long time now. I’m so dang glad you’re here."

"Good." Jack's thumb traces the side of his leg, his palm sliding up almost imperceptibly from knee to lower thigh. "Me, too."

Bitty dares to lower his head onto Jack's shoulder. He's trying not to pay attention, but his whole body is focused on the movement of Jack's hand. The slow drag of his thumb against Bitty's thigh is maddening. Bitty lets out a sigh, then forces his breath into regularity. It's hot and it's sticky and the fireworks will begin soon, but it's damn hard to ignore the display currently firing on all cylinders in his gut. God, he wants Jack. Wants him with fierceness he didn't even know he could muster. But at the same time, he doesn't want to disturb anything about this perfect, quiet moment. The conflict has him keyed up, and he's unable to sit still. He lifts his head again and reaches for his phone.

The glow of the screen is harsh in the darkness, and Bitty squints as it comes alive. The lock screen tells him it’s 8:47. "Twelve minutes to fireworks," Bitty says. "Guess I brought you up here a little bit early. Um. So. You were great at the picnic. My uncles think you’re--"

Jack's hand lands on the phone, pushes it down and away. Bitty looks up at him. Their eyes meet for a hot moment.

Who leans in? Does it matter?

Jack's hand tightens on his thigh as they kiss, and his free hand comes up to cup Bitty's jaw. Fingertips flutter at the base of Bitty's cheekbone, his ear. The sound of Bitty’s moan pings seemingly endlessly off the metal angles of the truck. He doesn't stifle it. There's no one out here but the mosquitoes to hear how deftly Jack is taking him apart with lips and tongue, how the soft graze of Jack's teeth against his lower lip is undoing him.

Bitty loops both his arms around Jack's neck, pulls him over so Jack is kneeling above him. Bitty surges up to meet him, their bodies coming flush together. Heat roars through him and he lets the whole night hear it.

"Jack," he gasps as Jack dips to kiss his neck, his shoulder. "Oh, Lord, Jack, _yes_."

Images are flashing through his mind then. Jack's face on the screen, the soft contortions of his muscles as he stroked himself. Jack's hand flying on his cock. The two of them, panting and gasping, together but apart. Nothing separates them now, not miles, not pixels. Bitty arches under Jack, revels in the feel of hard chest, hard thighs, and oh God yes, hard cock against him. Jack's hand has ridden up almost to his hip, fingers hard enough to bruise through the fabric of Bitty’s shorts.

Jack mutters something in French against his skin, then captures his mouth again, tongue sliding warm and slippery against Bitty's own. Bitty grinds against him, shameless, heedless of the sticky-hot night. He didn't know he could feel this way, all glowing and burning and wanting all over. He marvels at the sound and feeling as he pants against Jack's mouth.

Without thinking about it, he slides his hands down in a rush and lifts away the hem of Jack's shirt, sliding up to feel the knotted muscles of his back. Against him, Jack hisses and arches.

A firework explodes above them. Jack stills, breathing heavily into Bitty’s ear. Bitty watches the golden shimmers waver and fade out.

"We'll miss the fireworks, eh?" Jack whispers against his skin. He kisses Bitty softly, presses their foreheads together, then negotiates himself up and away to sit against the truck's side again.

Bitty groans at the loss. He slumps there a moment, staring up at the fireworks as they burst red and green and yellow into the night. "Jack Laurent Zimmermann, you have killed me," he says. "I lie here dead as a doornail."

"I doubt that." Jack passes a hand over his hair, fuzzing it slightly, then reaches out to help him sit up.

Bitty leans over, plants a kiss on Jack's mouth like a fat rose, and then pulls back with regret to settle in next to him. Jack slides an arm around him and pulls him close. Above them, fireworks burst brilliant and beautiful in the sky.

They don't talk as the display goes on. The pops that fill the sky would drown out most conversation anyway. But Jack's fingers squeeze at his shoulder at the more brilliant combinations, and a few times, they catch each other's gaze and then kiss, softly. Each time, Bitty thinks he won't be able to control himself. Each time, amazingly, he does, and the kisses end with a soft parting of lips and twin smiles. The flame of desire in Bitty's gut is low, present but not overwhelming. It doesn’t have to be, not yet. They're only now figuring out what it is to be close to each other. They don’t need to give in to every temptation, or to go too far, too fast. There will be time. Maybe not tonight, or even this weekend, but there will be time.

As the show ends, with a dazzling series of dozens of bright blooms in the sky, Bitty tilts his head to watch Jack's rapt face. If he lives a thousand lifetimes, Bitty doesn't think he'll ever forget the line of Jack's profile in this moment, the soft smile and the shimmering eyes, lit by the cycling rainbow of color. This, he thinks with a sort of reverence, is the boy he loves.

He thinks about saying it then. But it still doesn't feel like quite the right time.


	2. Chapter 2

"Now, you boys don't _have_ to go to church," Mama Bittle says proudly on Sunday morning, like she's the pinnacle of understanding. "I always tell Dicky, he's a grown-up now, and he can make his own choice."

"Don't believe a word of it," Bitty murmurs to Jack. "She'll look at me funny for three weeks running if we skip. Why, the one weekend I had to go set up for camp, she kept sighing that night. So, trust me, we'd better go. Sorry!"

"It's fine," Jack says aloud, lobbing an easy smile at Mama Bittle. "I'd be happy to attend church with you."

Bitty shrinks down and sips his coffee with burning cheeks. He feels _so_ bad that he didn’t see this coming. Of course Mama was going to bring up church. Bitty was nursing a small hope that she’d let it go, just this one Sunday, for the sake of entertaining her guest. But sadly, this is not Samwell and church is a place you Just Go. Which means -- oh, God, what _will_ it mean? Jack shuddering through the same closed-minded sermons that Bitty’s endured for years? More fussing from the flutterbudgets at the after-service brunch? A whole congregation full of folks falling all over themselves to meet the local celebrity-in-training? All of the above?

He’s cringing as he follows Jack up the stairs so they can both change for church. But the cringing stops as Jack follows him over the threshold of his bedroom, closes the door behind him, and smiles when Bitty turns to him in confusion.

“I haven’t kissed you yet today,” Jack says.

Bitty is still trying to formulate a response when Jack cups his face in both hands and leans down. It’s a soft, impossibly sweet kiss.

All the beginnings of Bitty’s possible answers come out in a flood. “I -- uh-- but we-- last night--”

“It was only quarter of midnight,” Jack says, moving away and staring at his bookshelf with interest. “It was still yesterday.”

Bitty closes his eyes. It had felt like midnight. The two of them creeping up the hushed stairwell, his mother meeting them at the top in her nightgown. “Glad you two got back safe,” she said, and “good night,” and shuffled off to bed again. Which left Bitty and Jack staring at each other in the stillness, unsure how to say goodnight.

In the end, they’d dared to share a brief, hot kiss, Bitty pinned up against the door of Jack’s room. Jack had wanted Bitty to come in for a while. Blood singing, every fiber of his body begging him to follow Jack inside, Bitty had nonetheless demurred. He needed the rest, and the space to think about everything that’d happened that day and what it meant.

He did eventually fall asleep, but dear Lord, he needed that coffee this morning. He’ll probably need more after church.

“Is this really what they taught you about the Civil War?” Jack has opened one of his high school history textbooks and is frowning hard at it.

Bitty has to physically push him out of the room. “Go get changed, Mr. Zimmermann.”

They end up piling into the station wagon and driving to church. The service is already under way as they enter, and while they make their way to their seats without interruption, gazes shift and whispers skitter along the pews.

As the service goes on, Bitty becomes more and more aware of them. A handsome stranger in their midst was bound to bring the rumor mill fresh fuel. And he can hardly blame some of the church ladies for tittering and hiding their faces behind gloved hands as they whisper to each other. Not with the way Jack is looking this morning. Mostly, he’s thankful for no outright interruptions -- and for nothing too offensive in the sermon.

Afterwards, though, things get crazy right quick. For every churchgoer who has the stones to step right up and ask who their guest is, there are ten more leaning in with ears twitching. Bitty says “This is my friend Jack from school” enough times that the syllables cease to make sense to him. Jack gets his hand pumped a lot; he gets welcomed to Georgia a lot. Someone hears his accent and thinks he’s from France. Someone else guesses he must be a football player. And all the time the women circle, like hungry vultures, and Bitty wishes he could scare them off with a glare. But he can’t, so he keeps his benign, happy smile on, trying to enjoy the attention even a little bit.

Just when he’s sure it can’t get much worse, someone recognizes Jack.

“Hey.” Mr. Thompson, who’s the last person Bitty would ever peg as a hockey fan, sticks a fat finger in Jack’s face. “You’re Jack Zimmermann, ain’t’cha? You’re the spitting image of your father. The spitting image!”

“Who’s this, dear?” Mrs. Thompson’s a little hard of hearing.

“Why, it’s Jack Zimmermann. The hockey player! You remember, dear. Remember Bad Bob Zimmermann? I didn’t make the connection, but you--” he sticks his finger in Bitty’s direction, but obviously can’t remember his name. “You went off to that Samwell College. That’s where he went, that’s how I sussed it out. Following in your father’s footsteps, right, young man? Off to the pros with you. Providence, if I’m recalling right. Good luck to you, son!”

Bitty flushes -- not so much because of Mr. Thompson’s words, which are fairly benign, but because of the whispers that are making their way out toward the edges of the room and the newly interested eyes that are now falling upon them. The fact that Jack’s a pro athlete freshly piques everyone’s interest.

It brings a new wave of questions, and this time, Bitty himself is the subject of half of them. He stutters out that yes, he played with Jack at Samwell. No, he’s not thinking about becoming a pro as well. Yes, he can still play college hockey at his height. Yes, Jack’s taught him a lot. It’s actually kind of fun, to have people asking him about his life instead of side-eying him and assuming. For the first time, Bitty allows himself to have a little pride in the fact that he’s friends with ( _shhh-- dating--)_ a quasi-celebrity.

But guilt wells up, too, along with the pride. This isn’t what Jack came down here for. Bitty glances at him, then at Mama, who is rather happily fielding her own line of questions about what it’s like to be the parent of a collegiate athlete. “Oh, it’s so frightening to see him out there on the ice,” she tells Mrs. Winthrop of the PTA. “But he always does such a good job.”

“Mama,” Bitty says sweetly, “we’re going to be late for that _thing._ That we have to _go_ to.”

She turns her head, reads his face and remembers herself. “Oh, goodness, yes. So sorry, I’ve got to ferry these children out of here. Come on now, Dicky, Jack!”

The throng actually parts to make way for her as she leads the two of them out, Coach bringing up the rear with a couple of rough-edged so-longs. When they’re back in the car, all four of them breathe a sigh of relief at once, followed by a shared laugh.

“Well, that was _something_!” Mama says as she maneuvers out of the church parking lot and back onto the road.

“I’m sorry about all that, Jack,” Bitty says. Jack looks -- well, not _disturbed_ , but less calm and smiley than he’d been earlier this morning. This is Jack with a nonzero stress level, and it’s not how Bitty wants him to be feeling on his vacation.

“Hm?” Jack glances at him, then shakes his head. “No, it’s okay.”

“Still! You didn’t come down here to get accosted by half the town. I should have seen it coming. I should have done something.”

“It’s really okay. I’ve done it before.” Jack shrugs. “And it’s something I have to get used to. They’re making a media push for me later in the month. I’m going to be in TV commercials.” He flushes lightly.

“Oh, that’s right!” Bitty turns toward the front seat. “Jack has always been pretty famous on campus, but it’s going to be a whole ‘nother ball of wax when the season starts. He’s going to be an out-and-out celebrity.”

“Well.” Mama glances in the rear view mirror. “That must be exciting for you, Jack.”

“Um.” Jack twists his lips. “It’s all right. It’s not why I’m doing this. I only want to play hockey.”

“Oh, I know, I know!” Mama says. “But it must be fun nonetheless. Who hasn’t dreamed of being famous, once or twice at least?”

Jack gives Bitty a look. Amusement sparkles in his eyes, and Bitty can read his thought bubble: _I think I see where you get it from._

To Mama, he says, “Honestly, I’ve never known anything else. College was the closest I’ve come to being left alone since I was a baby. And even there I was approached by people. I suppose I don’t know if it’s fun or not. It’s the way things have always been.”

The words, low and measured, set Bitty’s brain working overtime. He’s never really pondered what that must be like for Jack, to know that anywhere he goes, he could be recognized, bothered, reported on. What would it be like for Bitty, if someday he and Jack were to disclose their relationship? Even just to their parents or friends? They’d have to be so careful. Bitty tries to imagine reporters hounding _him_ walking down the street, and the thought’s laughable, if it weren’t so unexpectedly scary. Bitty _likes_ attention -- he always has. But does he want attention for being someone’s boyfriend? And does he want it outside the bounds of the Internet, where he can’t turn it off and hide?

The feelings tumble around in his chest like clothes in a dryer, and he looks for a way to lighten the mood. “Well,” he says, “it’s fun for us. It’s a hoot to watch Jack get asked for autographs when he’s walking across River Quad to class. He’s always so polite.”

The smile he gets from Jack is _not_ the one he expected. It’s quick and dark, and in another second Jack’s leaning in, dropping soft words like a kiss on his ear: “You know I like it when you watch me.”

Bitty jumps so high he very nearly bangs his head on the car’s roof. “Jack _Zimmermann!_ ” he hisses, hoping the color on his cheeks doesn’t give him away completely. He glances toward the front seat and sees his mother, her brows arched, staring into the rearview mirror.

“He’s--” Bitty flaps his hand. “He’s-- he’s being inappropriate.” Well, it’s not a lie.

Coach chuckles. “College boys,” he says. “I’d think you’d be used to it by now, Junior.”

“I’m-- he’s-- well, first of all, you’re not in college anymore,”  Bitty says with a glare at Jack. Jack just keeps on smiling.

* * *

After lunch (leftovers from the picnic, plus that extra cup of coffee Bitty so desperately needed), Bitty manages to commandeer the station wagon and take Jack out on the road, ostensibly to show him the town. And Madison is indeed very cute, with a quaint downtown area marked by a fountain and a number of impressive-looking city buildings. Bitty drives past all of them. There’s one place he wants to take Jack, and there’s one thing he wants to do with him, above all. Since this may be their last chance for a very, very long time.

Luckily, Jack brought a pair of skates.

Above the door to the ice at Jones Rink is a sign that warns for a million little things. No food and drink on the ice. Hold children’s hands. Skate counterclockwise only. Leave the sides of the rink for the slower skaters. No leisure skating during team practices. Bitty reads them for the five thousandth time as they lace up and ease their way out onto the ice. He also catches a glimpse of today’s calendar. His old coed club team is having a practice in an hour. Bitty wonders if he might see some of the players he left behind. It would be a trip to see how some of the high school freshmen have grown up.

But for now, he’s on the ice with Jack, and it feels so darned good he just wants to bust a seam.

They skate side by side, taking leisurely laps around the rink. The cool air touches Bitty’s cheeks, and he smiles, brilliant. Now and again, he catches Jack’s eye, and gets a smile back. The soft shhh of their skates as they push off, one by one by one, is a gentle music that wraps up and around them as they go. Side by side, like instruments playing in unison, they circle once, then again, in their element together.

On their way, they pass teens beating the heat, mothers with small children wobbling in their first skates, and once in a while somebody Bitty recognizes. He skates up to them, talks for a few minutes, then slides back across to rejoin Jack. “I figure it’s easier if I don’t introduce you to everybody,” he says. “We might start a riot.”

“People here aren’t like the people at church,” Jack observes. “There’s less… staring.”

“That’s because unlike church, people here are having _fun_ ,” Bitty says in an exaggerated lilt.

A teenage couple skates by to their right, hand in hand. Bitty follows them with his eyes, jealous. He should be holding Jack’s hand as they skate round and round. It’s unfair that he doesn’t get to. Maybe someday, in some rink somewhere, they’ll be able to. But that’s a lot of _some_ s to hang one’s hat on.

When the hour elapses, they’re shooed off the ice. One of the shooers is a pert teenage girl in a hockey jersey that reads “MADISON COED.” Bitty doesn’t recognize her at first, but after she blows her whistle at them, she pulls it out of her mouth and exclaims happily, “Eric!”

Bitty peers, then skates forward. “Ashley?” He makes a beeline for her. They hug happily. “Well, look at you! What has it been, two whole years? Is that the C on your sweater? Oh, my gosh, congratulations! How’s the club? Have we beaten Davenport yet? Tell me everything!”

“I will, I will,” Ashley says, “one sec.” She blows her whistle at Jack. “Sir, I need you to get off the ice.”

“Oh, no, no, no, he’s with me,” Bitty says. “Jack, this is Ashley, she was a freshman when I graduated, and now I guess you’re the captain of the coed team? Ashley, this is my friend Jack from school.”

“Hi, Jack!” She thrusts out a hand, which Jack shakes, and for an instant Bitty feels a prickling of jealousy. Jack can shake hands with strangers -- he just can’t hold the hand of someone he knows well. If Bitty were Ashley, if he were anybody else but himself, he would get to feel the warmth of Jack’s fingers against his, the weight and pressure of his palm. But because they already know each other, he can’t. The logic of it is all upside-down somehow.

He scowls as Ashley pours on the Southern charm. “So where are you from? How do you and Eric know each other?”

He’s perplexed. “Um. Hockey. We played together for two years. I just graduated.”

“Oh, you’re a player too?” She laughs. “I should have you two stay for a while, give this team some pointers. We could use a college-level coach or two!”

Bitty points his finger and opens his mouth at the word _college-level_ and the insinuation that Jack is just another faceless member of a random college’s random team. But Ashley’s continuing to chat (and maybe even flirt, to Bitty’s consternation) with Jack, and he doesn’t see a natural way to cut in. He’s used to personalities strong enough to make him seem like a wilting flower in comparison -- that’s part and parcel of living in this area of Georgia -- but it still feels like a vague offense, to be cut off and shut up because nobody realizes that Jack is _his._

He chides himself. First of all, Jack’s not _his_ , people don’t belong to people, what a horrible turn of phrase. Second of all, he should be pleased that people are taking to Jack so well down here. It’s far better than the alternative. He’s got no right to be pissy and greedy, and he should know better.

“Well, I’d better get to my team,” she says, looking over her shoulder at the ragtag cluster of kids that are gathering behind her expectantly. “So nice to meet you, Jack. I’m glad Eric is making some good friends. Don’t be a stranger now, Cap!”

“Haha, you’re the Cap now!” Bitty calls after her as she skates away. He grins and waves, but a small seed of dissatisfaction is itching in his heart as he and Jack head for the door.

* * *

From there they head to the other side of town and pull up outside the grounds of Bitty's camp. Bitty's promised to give him the full tour, even though it's a weekend and none of his day campers are there. He takes Jack around the grounds as promised, but as they go from Big Building to Little Building to arts shack to nature hut and music circle, the itch sitting at the base of Bitty's heart keeps dampening his enthusiasm.

He doesn't want to be doing this. He has precious seconds with Jack, and he doesn't want to be spending them here.

It took a good forty minutes to drive across town and past the miles of fields that separate civilization from the campgrounds. Bitty swallowed the distaste souring his mouth and chatted with Jack lightly. They laughed and traded chirps, familiar and comfortable, like longtime friends do. That's what Ashley had called them, back at the rink -- "good friends."

But friends isn't what they are, even if that's the face they're painting on for the world. They're more than that. And Bitty wants to be more than that, for as long as he can manage to enjoy it. Jack's by his side and Bitty wants to be staring into his eyes, wants to be telling him all the ways Jack's presence is making him giddy. He wants, as they walk back from field to flagpole, to slip his hand into Jack's and let it nestle there.

Most of all, he doesn't want to share Jack with anybody else. He’s sick of everybody else laying claim to him. And he’s sick of Jack taking it all in stride. Not that there’s any other way he _can_ take it, but Jack’s being so relentlessly pleasant about everything. Bitty knows well enough that for Jack politeness is a coping mechanism. He doesn’t begrudge him that. But… won’t Jack look at him a little the way he used to on Skype? All hungry and possessive, with bright, glinting eyes? Bitty misses that look.

They’re five minutes away from the campground, passing a fallow cornfield marked by thick brown grass, when Bitty decides he’s sick of waiting for it.

He pulls the station wagon off the road and drives it down into the low dirt by the fence. He turns off the engine. He unbuckles his seatbelt. And he turns and scowls at a befuddled Jack.

“Listen,” he says, “I know you’re just about the nicest guy in the world, when you decide to be. And I appreciate how kind you’ve been to my family, and all those ladies at church, and everybody who has come up to you today to say hello and introduce themselves and chat and all. But Jack, don’t you feel like we ought to -- what I mean is, don’t you think -- isn’t it about time -- oh, _hell_!”

Without another word, Bitty launches himself over the gearshift and plants himself in Jack’s lap, kissing him hard.

There’s a terrified moment of doubt. But then Jack’s hands are on his waist, and Jack’s kissing back. Not just kissing -- Jack’s savaging his mouth with brushes and presses of hard lips, swipes and curls of a sweet tongue. He groans. His hands rub upward to Bitty’s shoulders, back down to his waist, down further to his hips. He tastes Bitty’s tongue, the corners of his mouth, leans down to kiss his neck.

“Oh, my God,” Jack mumbles against his skin. “Oh, God, Bits. I -- _fuck._ ”

His mouth is leaving wonderful hot blooms of wetness all along Bitty’s shoulder. He reaches up to tug at Bitty’s shirt, pull free more skin to taste. Bitty feels like he’s been thrown in a cage with a tiger. His kiss has unleashed this animal in Jack, wild and desperate, and Bitty’s being wonderfully, ecstatically assaulted  He keens high in this throat and grabs Jack’s hair, the back of his neck.

“I’m so sick of sharing you,” he whispers against Jack’s ear. “I’m so sick of everyone else. I want you so badly, Jack. I want you to look at _me_. Touch _me_. I don’t want you to be anyone else’s but mine.”

Jack stills a little. He leans up, takes Bitty’s mouth in a sucking kiss, and then exhales against his lips. “I’ve been scared to touch you,” he murmurs between fast, shallow breaths. “I knew once I started, I couldn’t stop.”

His hands dip under the waistband of Bitty’s shorts, and in one swift movement he’s cupping Bitty’s ass beneath the fabric, hot hands on Bitty’s skin in a revelatory rush of contact. “I’m sick of sharing you, too,” he says.

Bitty crushes his mouth in a kiss.

Jack holds him firm in those two big palms, easing his body close until they’re tucked tight into each other. Bitty’s knees bracket Jack’s thighs, squeezing hard in the snug fit of the passenger seat. His hips are flush against Jack’s stomach. As they kiss -- and oh God the kisses are sweet and warm as caramel -- Jack positions them together carefully, so the front of Bitty’s shorts ride low against Jack’s stomach. The head of Jack’s cock brushes shockingly against the base of Bitty’s, and Bitty makes a sound that echoes in the tiny space.

Bitty tries to keep a hold of himself, but then Jack’s fingers on his ass are snaking down and under, and a spike of excitement has him grinding hard against Jack and seeing bright lights behind his eyelids. “Oh, God, honey,” he murmurs.

“Want you,” Jack growls into the hollow of his throat.

Bitty’s answer is a desperate noise without a name. He buries his head in Jack’s shoulder and shudders hard as their cocks slide together rough and slow. The barriers of fabric between them do little to dampen the sensation. Bitty gasps.

Jack’s fingers are dangerous things, now zipping down the line of Bitty’s perineum to brush the base of his balls, now sliding along his thighs to come forward. When Jack’s fingers connect with his cock, Bitty stiffens and pulls back to stare at Jack in wonder. “Honey, are we really going to do this here? For the first time? In my dad’s seat in my mom’s car?”

“I--” Jack looks crestfallen. “I suppose we don’t have to--”

“Oh, gosh, _you_!” Bitty can’t help a laugh. “I mean, let’s get in the back seat, at least!”

The relief on Jack’s face is palpable. “Oh, thank God.”

Bitty giggles. He pulls Jack out the passenger side, opens the back door, and unceremoniously dumps their bags in the dirt beside the car. “You go in first, get comfortable,” he orders, and watches appreciatively as Jack unfolds his long limbs across the wide spread of the seats. Thank goodness Mama put a premium on spacious seating when she was car shopping. Jack reaches for him, and Bitty tumbles after, just barely managing to close the car door behind him before landing on top of Jack in a delightful heap.

Jack’s arms go around him, and for a long, sweet moment, they just kiss.

They’re wonderful kisses, but they can’t last forever -- the heat between them is too fierce to tame. Bitty bears down on Jack, pushing their hips together and moaning at the rush of sensation. “Jack,” he gasps, “Jack, I’m gonna take my shorts off, okay?”

Jack’s answer is to take hold of those shorts and tug hard. Laughing, kissing Jack every other second, Bitty wriggles out of them, then rears up onto his knees, helping Jack tug his own shorts down. “Aren’t you glad you didn’t bring those jeans now?” he teases. Jack pulls him down and bites at his impudent lips until Bitty’s forgotten how to speak.

With only the worn cotton of Jack’s boxers and the stretch of Bitty’s tight briefs between them, the touch of their cocks together is almost unbearably warm. Bitty bears forward and down with a cry, steadying himself with hands on Jack’s shoulders. He’s never done this, doesn’t know how it’s supposed to work. He’s just doing what feels good, and it feels great to rub against Jack like this, half on fire, the heat in his balls and cock building with each unpracticed thrust. “God,” he whispers, “oh, Lord.”

“Bittle-- _ahh_ ,” Jack says, his mouth popping open, an expression something like pain crossing his face.

Bitty starts. “Oh, no, did that hurt?”

“No-- _shit_ \-- no.” Jack takes in a gasp. His hands come down hard on Bitty’s hips. “Just--” and he guides Bitty forward, a slightly different angle, a little more gliding and shallow. “ _Yes.”_ He takes in a huge swallow of breath, and his hips move under Bitty’s, buoying him upward. A wave of pleasure overtakes Bitty, and he throws himself forward, head bobbing down toward Jack’s chest. _Oh._  Oh, yes, that’s even better. To have Jack’s hips swell against his like that. To have them rock together, instead of Bitty just pushing against him. It’s… slower, somehow, but it’s so, so nice.

Jack kisses the top of his head, guides him until they’ve found a place and a position that leaves them both gasping with each thrust. “Oh, God, Jack,” Bitty wails, face buried in Jack’s chest, fingers raking up under the short sleeves of Jack’s T-shirt toward his shoulders. Jack rubs the small of his back, the line of his waist. Sweet, maddening touches like harmonies against the powerful melody of their hips coming together. Bitty’s gone out of his head just processing it all.

And it occurs to him, somewhere between Jack’s growled whisper that he’s close and Bitty’s answering sigh, that this is what they’ve been waiting for. This is what they’ve yearned for, all those nights over Skype. Watching each other, panting, staring into the webcams like they could reach through and devour each other. They’re here now. In the same place, so close they’re almost in the same skin. Hurtling toward that vanishing point together. The thrill of it happening _now_ , in _this_ moment, is so sharp and visceral it nearly hurts.

Bells ring in Bitty’s head when he comes. He cries out so sharply that the echo is almost abrasive to his ears. Oh, Lord, he’s shaking, he’s shaking so hard, he’s full of hot hot liquid, he’s going to melt. His orgasm rushes in, builds out, then reverberates all through his body. His arms and legs quiver with the power and resonance of it.

Beneath him, Jack goes stiff, and Bitty comes back to himself quickly enough to look up, to watch Jack break down beneath him. He’s seen Jack’s face contorted in orgasm before, but he’s never felt his body lock up, and he wants to be present for it. Still dully throbbing, he watches and experiences, treasuring the near-pain when Jack’s hand tightens on his back.

They just hold each other for a few seconds, the sounds of their panting breaths filling the car.

“Oh, _honey_ ,” Bitty kisses at Jack’s shoulders, licks the sweat from his neck. “Oh, _sweetheart._ I-- I’m-- just-- _oh._ ”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. He kisses the crown of Bitty’s head, his hairline.

“We are just a _mess_.” Bitty says with a soft laugh. “Hang on. I think I’ve got a towel in one of those bags somewhere.” His body sings with regret -- and a bit of relief, because _sweat_ \-- as he disentangles himself from Jack. Kicking the door open, he eases out onto the side of the road and digs through the bag, fighting a rush of dizziness as he does. That. That just happened. He and Jack finally, _finally_ , got it on. Bitty half wants to sing a round of the Hallelujah Chorus to the sun-darkened grass.

Cleanup is a bit of a futile effort. They manage to mop up the excess and pat their underwear down such that the evidence won’t show up on their shorts. But they’re bound to be uncomfortable, and Bitty expects they’ll both bolt for their rooms to change once they’ve returned to the house.

But even the discomfort holds its own kind of fun. Bitty grins at Jack as they climb back into the front seat. And Jack reaches over to hold Bitty’s hand as they drive away, letting it go only when it’s time to turn off the main road for home.

* * *

Dinner is meatloaf, because, Mama says, she’s all tuckered out from a week of picnic preparations and it’s the best she can manage. Jack assures her it’s all right, but if Bitty had known, he would have dragged Jack to the store and at least got fixings for the grill. Meatloaf is hardly the best of Bittle cuisine (it’s still good, anything Mama makes is good, but still), and Bitty would have preferred to show his guest a little better hospitality than that.

“It’s delicious,” Jack says with a sunny smile to Mama, and, turning to Bitty, “Relax, Bits, it’s fine.”

“I think that’s so funny,” Mama says, “calling him ‘Bits.’ What an odd nickname.”

“I could stick to ‘Dicky,’ if he’d prefer,” Jack replies evenly. Bitty glares at him.

They quiz Jack lightly on his feelings about going into the NHL, and Jack answers with the polished poise he always seems to drum up when being interviewed. Bitty’s seen this face on him when he answered questions for the Daily, and when Bitty had overheard his conversations with managers and talent scouts. It’s always struck him as a little odd — it’s Jack, and yet it’s not. But even that distinction feels like it’s fading, with time. A little of the new, comfortable, honest Jack is seeping into that public persona, making him that much more real, that much more engaging. And, Bitty thinks with a flush as he steals a glance at Jack’s profile, that much more attractive.

He inwardly pinches himself. That happened, earlier. This boy who’s chatting comfortably with his parents is the same boy who groaned beneath him as he came in his boxers. Bitty wonders idly if what they did counts as sex. Neither of them was naked. Can you have sex with someone if the only skin you touch is mouths and arms and thighs? But Lord have mercy, it felt just like sex. Maybe, he thinks, it doesn’t matter whether it “counts” or not. Bitty privately decides it was something sexlike. Sex-adjacent, even. But he won’t count it, if only because he doesn’t want his “first time” to have been in the back seat of his mom’s car. He’ll save the “first time” moniker for someplace more private, even if what actually happens is more of the same.

Because Bitty is a romantic. And like a romantic, he is sitting here gazing dreamily at his boyfriend chatting up his parents. He’d better stop that.  He shakes himself out of it.

“...suppose they’ll be doing a recap of the Braves game, if you’d like to join me,” Coach is saying to Jack. “Although I suppose you’ve got too much hockey on your mind to follow baseball much.”

“I know a little,” Jack says. Which makes Bitty want to laugh, because Jack knows everything about every sport known to man.

“Why don’t you two go into the den and turn on the news, then,” Mama says, rising to her feet. “Dicky and I will clean up.”

“Wait, I’ll what now?” But Bitty’s already being forcibly dragged from the table by a deceptively strong Mama. Jack looks after him with some concern, but then Coach pats his arm and ushers him into the den, and he falls out of sight.

Bitty turns to his mother with a pout. “Why can’t I go watch TV too?”

“Many, many reasons,” Mama says briskly. “First of all, I need help cleaning up. Second, Dicky, you can’t spend every moment of the day babysitting Jack, your father wants to get to know him.”

“I -- didn’t he get to know him plenty at the picnic?” Dicky starts, but then Mama’s face to face with him. She places a small hand on his face, patting slightly, and he’s brought to chastened silence.

“Third,” Mama says, “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you since the day before yesterday. You can’t avoid your mother forever, you know.”

Bitty starts to sweat. He steps away, returning to the table to stack the plates neatly and bringing them to the dishwasher. “I’m not avoiding you,” he insists, though it occurs to him right now that he ought to start -- if she wants to go on about him having a girlfriend like she did at the start of the summer, it’s going to be painful.

“Mm-hm.” Mama runs the faucet, the soft whoosh of water like white noise, filling the silence around them. “Are you having a good weekend? Do you suppose Jack’s enjoying himself here?”

“I think he is.” Bitty has to try not to smile.

“I’m so glad. It was so nice of him to come down to visit you. I do worry that cosmopolitan kids like him won’t find much use for us in small towns, but he seems to be enjoying himself well enough. You two had fun in town today?”

“Um. Yes.” Bitty wonders if he should fabricate a story about them walking around town. Which they decidedly didn’t. There was the rink, camp, and then… the side of the road. He hopes he’s not flushing at the memory.

“You two seem very close,” Mama says.

It’s spoken casually, but Bitty’s heart still speeds up. “Close?”

She shoots him a sideways look. “Well, sure, honey,” she says. “I’m glad that you’re making good friends at school.”

Here, the word _friends_ is a relief rather than an irritant. Thank goodness his mother clarified. “Oh.” He hopes his face doesn’t reflect the momentary tension he felt. “You know how it is, Mama. When you’re a bunch of guys on a team together, and living in the same Haus…”

“Mm-hm, you see a lot of each other,” she finishes for him with a nod. “I’m glad you’re getting on so well with them. Lord knows we were a little worried, sending you on up to college so far away from home. But you seem so relaxed and… and _grown-up_ lately. It’s enough to make a mother cry.” She pauses at the sink to wipe one eye against her wrist. “We’re just so proud of you, Dicky. I hope you know that.”

Bitty peers at her. An urge to tell her the whole truth flutters upward in his heart and gets caught in his throat. He swallows it back down. It’s not the sort of thing he can just up and say, as much as the temptation might be there. He and Jack have talked about this. He has Jack’s privacy to protect as well.

And he can’t help flashing back to an overheard moment back in high school, when Mama was telling a friend that she was so darn tired of hearing about gay this and gay that. Granted, her next sentence had been, “Who cares? Let people live their darn lives, is what I say.” But the first part stuck in Bitty’s mind like an angry hornet, and he’s never really been able to get rid of it.

Still, his mother’s given him an opening. He ought to take it. “Say, Mama,” he starts. “I know I was planning to go on up to Samwell at the beginning of August, but I have that whole week free after the last camp session ends on the 24th. Suppose I wanted to go up a few days earlier in the week. Just to… to get things ready for everyone when they come on up. Do you … suppose that might be all right?”

She eyes him. The moment is silent -- but for the tinny chatter of the TV in the other room, and the sound of the water in the sink, and the pound of Bitty’s heart -- and Bitty wonders if there’s more he needs to say to complete the charade. Lord knows he doesn’t like lying, but he’s getting frighteningly good at it. And he can hardly tell Mama outright that he wants to go visit Jack not even a month after Jack’s left here, now can he?

The silence stretches on, and a wave of dread pulses through Bitty. Oh, God, he’s given something away. She knows. She has to know. What else could be the reason for that slight smile coming to her lips now? Mama doesn’t have a lot of Mona Lisa smiles, but this one is completely confounding. Bitty stares at her. He’s just about to give in and say “Never mind” when she shrugs at turns back to her dishwashing. “Well now, that’s nice of you,” she says. “I’m sure that’d be all right. Your parents will miss you, of course.”

Bitty’s grin is too sudden to bite down. “Thanks, Mama!”

She nods sagely. “You’re a grown man now, Dicky. You get to make your own decisions. And you’ve worked again this summer, and that’s all we’ve ever asked, that you work a little in the summer to help pay for your own books and things.”

“Of course!” Bitty’s heart is cartwheeling. Time with Jack up in Providence! The two of them as alone as alone can be! Given what happened today, he’s not sure he’ll survive the anticipation. He looks over his shoulder toward the den.

Mama sighs. “Here,” she says, shoving a dish into his hands. “Dry this and the other pan and put them away, and then go be a boy with the boys. My goodness, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d rather be watching TV than in my kitchen.”

Guilt weighs down Bitty’s heart at that, and wonders if he should just stay and keep Mama company. But even now his body is singing to be closer to Jack, even if it’s just on the same couch in the den with his father. It’s occurred to him that Jack’s going home tomorrow. And early tomorrow, at that. Their time together is dwindling, Bitty doesn’t like disappointing his mother, but he’ll be here with her for three and a half more weeks. With Jack, he only has tonight and tomorrow morning.

He dries the pans hastily, places them in the cabinets, and then walks over to the sink. Without a word, he puts his arms around Mama and squeezes. “I love you best, Mama,” he whispers. “Promise.”

In his arms, Mama goes rigid, then relaxes. She lets out a soft little sigh. “I know you do, Dicky. I love you too. Now go play.”

* * *

Coach and Jack are analyzing pitching technique when Bitty comes into the den. It’s a conversation Bitty couldn’t follow if he tried, something about the stitching on the ball and spin and wrist movement, and he slumps down onto the couch, leaving as much air between him and Jack as he can. Mama’s comments have him a bit on edge, and he’s nervous about something happening to betray him.

But Coach’s body language is relaxed, the forward roll of his shoulders betraying only deep interest in the conversation at hand, and he gesticulates as he talks, fingers curling around imaginary baseballs. Once, he mimes a throw, and Jack has to dodge. Bitty fights down a laugh.

He’s not sure Jack even realizes he’s in the room. He hasn’t looked in Bitty’s direction since he came in and didn’t seem to register the sag of the cushion when Bitty sat down. Bitty watches him, feigning interest in the conversation for Coach’s sake. Really, he’s memorizing the feel of Jack this close. Not that he should need to. He’s shared space with Jack for two years now. But it’s so new, being so near to him knowing how Jack feels. Even now, with Jack seemingly unaware of his presence, the whole feel is different.

There’s the way Jack’s body folds, the strong line of his thighs and the solid brace of his hips. There’s the tension in Jack’s jaw as he speaks. The spread of his fingers in the air. And the way the Georgia sunset, filtering in through the window, strikes his face and turns his profile into bright lines of orange-dipped red. Every detail of him feels new and excruciatingly beautiful. Bitty swallows hard as a ghost of a smile flits across Jack’s face and gold glints, reflected, in his eyes. This is the boy he loves, just feet away from him, animated and alive. Bitty wants, more than anything, to reach out and take his hand.

Jack stops mid-sentence, leaving an odd silence in the air. He sits forward on the couch. “Pardon me,” he says in a low voice a minute later, and crosses to the window. Bitty’s gaze follows him, then flits toward his father. Coach shrugs.

After a few seconds of gazing, Jack turns. His eyes meet Bitty’s for a second, and the corner of his mouth turns up. Then he turns to Coach. “Sir,” he says, “would you mind if I went outside to take some photos? That ought to be captured.” He gestures toward the sunset.

Coach looks momentarily put out. He was undoubtedly enjoying the sports talk. But he nods. “Go right ahead,” he says. “Make sure you put on some bug spray. There’s ticks in the longer grass. Junior, you check him for ticks when you come back in.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jack says. “I’ll be back in before it’s dark out.” He steps across the den, purpose in his eyes. For a minute Bitty thinks he’ll be left with his dad in the den as Jack scampers this way and that on his property. How awkward will that be?

But then, at the doorway, Jack turns to him. “Bits?” he says. “You coming?”

Bitty has never bolted off a couch so fast in his life.

* * *

Outside, Jack turns his camera on the western sky, capturing the red-purple velvet of thin clouds, the great bleeding orange wedge of the sun.  Bitty watches him, listens to the whirr of the shutter and the croaking of crickets. He can’t really participate, but it’s fun in its own way to just watch Jack go where his artistic instinct takes him. When Jack suddenly decides the leaves of the tree in the yard are interesting, he turns without a word and walks a few yards without looking down or lowering the camera. Bitty prays there’s nothing lying in wait to trip him up.

Click, click, goes the shutter, and Jack points the camera this way and that, now drawn by the texture of the grass, now by the latticework on the porch. He mumbles to himself, half in French. Bitty leans against the tree and yawns. It’s been a long day, and the dimming light is starting to drain his energy.

Maybe this is how they finish out their visit, he thinks. Jack shuttering away, then going back to talk to his dad some more. A chaste goodnight, a hurried morning of packing and driving, and then Jack gone for another three weeks. Maybe everything peaked in the car this afternoon. Bitty twists his lips and scowls at the dirt. He wants Jack to enjoy himself, of course, and he’d never think of interrupting the photography session. But he better at _least_ get a goodbye kiss tomorrow. He’ll demand one, otherwise. Jack better not think otherwise.

Click.

Oh. That one was close by. Bitty looks up to see Jack grinning, lens pointed squarely in Bitty’s direction.

“Smile,” Jack says.

Bitty frowns further. Jack takes another picture.

“Jack,” he says.

Click.

“Shh, just be natural.” Jack’s voice is a little deep, a little rich. The smile tugging at the corners of his mouth is wicked. “Look toward me now.”

Bitty knows when he’s being chirped. “Now see here, Jack Zimmermann,” he says (click, click, click), “you’ve never had me pose for a picture before, and I’m starting to wonder what you’re up to.” (click, click) “You better not start telling me to make love to the camera, because I am on my parents’ property and I’m not going to…” (click, click, click) “Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes, I’m listening,” Jack says. “You’re not going to make love to the camera.”

“If you were even the kind of photographer who said something like that, which you’re not!” Bitty throws up his hands. Jack clicks through the gesture.

“I’ve never said it _before_ ,” Jack corrects. “Maybe when you come to Providence, I’ll try it.”

“Jack!” Bitty tries to duck behind the tree. Jack follows him, getting shots of him turning away, trying to dodge, turning with a face full of frustration. Bitty bats at him, trying unsuccessfully to knock him off balance.

“I want to kiss you,” Jack says, and takes a few more shots.

And choice shots they must be, with Bitty’s face heating up. “I beg your pardon?”

“I want to kiss you,” Jack repeats, as plain as anything.  

Bitty shoots a look over at the house. “They will _hear_ you.”

“ _I want to kiss you,”_ Jack stage-whispers. The grin on his face is so huge Bitty’s not sure his jaw won’t fall off.

Bitty rounds the tree and peeks out. “I want to kiss you too,” he admits. He can feel a grin tugging at his own lips.

Click, click, click. “I want to get you alone.”

“Jack, what do you call this afternoon?” Bitty hisses.  

“Not enough.” Click, click.

Bitty laughs. “I think I agree with you, Mr. Zimmermann.” He breaks into a run, dashing across the front yard and around toward the back of the house. Jack follows, taking shots the whole way, laughing when Bitty stops to beckon to him, then scampers off.  They round the property, jogging across the backyard and behind the garage. When Bitty turns the corner, he flattens himself against the far wall of the garage and waits.

Jack comes around the bend. Bitty reaches out.

The camera falls to Jack’s side and swings there in violent arcs, bumping hard against Bitty’s thigh as it goes. Bitty pays it no mind. He’s pulled Jack’s mouth to his in one forceful movement, and they’re kissing, long and delicious, up against the far wall of the garage. There’s no windows here, no prying parents, and for a few moments it’s just him and Jack, safe to adore each other freely. Jack’s fingers dance against Bitty’s jawline. He smells like starch and sun-warmth, and Bitty sighs into the kiss, utterly happy.

“Bits,” Jack murmurs, kissing at the corners of his mouth, the apples of his cheeks, his forehead. “I don’t want to go back tomorrow.”

“I don’t want you to go back,” Bitty says. “But I checked with Mama, and she’ll let me come up early. So I can come stay with you for a while at the end of the month, if that’s okay with you.”

Jack kisses him, deep and hot, curling their tongues together. “God, yes,” he breathes. “Yes, Bits. That’s okay.”

They cling to each other, lips and hands, and Bitty sighs a kind of relief into Jack’s mouth. This whole weekend has been an exercise in stealing moments, and when they arrive, as this one has, it’s all about prolonging them, hanging onto them as tightly as possible. Bitty’s arms snake around Jack’s neck. His fingers card through Jack’s hair. Maybe if he holds on fiercely enough, this moment won’t ever have to end.

They break to breathe. Jack’s exhalations fall hot against Bitty’s mouth. Their foreheads are pressed together.

“Suppose they’ll come out looking for us if we’re out of sight too long,” Bitty says.

“Don’t say that.” Jack slides a hand down Bitty’s side to his hip. Bitty shivers.

“Come on, honey,” Bitty says, taking his other hand, tangling their fingers together. “We’ll have plenty of time alone in Providence. Right?”

Jack’s eyes dance. “Right.” But his hand on Bitty’s hip tightens and he pulls Bitty in for one more kiss. “You could come to my room tonight,” he whispers.

Bitty goes instantly, horribly red. “ _Honey._ This is my parents’ house. They’d be right down the hall.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” Jack says, but his eyes are full of fire, and his fingers are hard enough to bruise. Bitty knows that look, and he knows what he feels when he meets Jack’s eyes. He pulls himself away from Jack, carefully, his body singing with regret and drags him out to the front of the house again.

What Jack’s asking of him is a risk, a big risk. They could be found _en flagrante_ , Bitty could be kicked out of the house or disowned or something else equally awful. Worse, Jack’s carefully constructed reputation could be ruined. They have to be careful.

But. But Jack goes home tomorrow.

But what _if._

* * *

The sun dips below the horizon before either of them is ready, and they head back into the house. First, Bitty checks himself and Jack for ticks up on the front porch, a tantalizing bit of torture where he has to get up close and personal with Jack’s legs without getting to enjoy.  They’re both breathing a little shallowly by the end of it. Bitty forces a smile as he gives Jack the all-clear. Jack stares at him with undisguised heat in his eyes. Bitty has to look away.

Inside, they review Jack’s flight plans for the next day. Jack flies out at 11:30 a.m., way too soon. Sooner, since the holiday traffic is bound to be awful. On the bright side, Bitty manages to convince Mama to let him drive Jack out by himself. That will give them a few precious minutes before Jack goes where they can be true to themselves. It also makes a goodbye kiss a possibility. Thank the good, sweet Lord. Bitty might die if he has to stick to a casual, friendly hug at the airport.

A little bit more conversation, some lolling around reading, and it’s bedtime. Bitty trudges up the stairs, feeling a little disheartened. He shouldn’t -- today’s been a nice day -- but something feels unfinished about this time, this trip, and he doesn’t know what it is or how he can make it right. When Jack turns (parents very much still in earshot) and says “See you tomorrow morning,” there’s a question in his eyes that Bitty isn’t sure how to answer. He retreats into his room with a thin smile locked onto his face. It fades as soon as he closes the door behind him.

At the foot of his bed sits the duffel bag with his skates in it. He dumps it onto the floor. Senor Bun stares reproachfully at him from the pillow. “I know!” he tells it, running tense fingers through his hair. “I know, but what am I supposed to do?”

Senor Bun seems to be telling him the answer. Bitty scowls. “Bun, I _can’t._ ” Ugh, but the images are torturing him now. Jack beneath him, sheets rumpled beneath his bare shoulders. Jack’s arms hot around him. The two of them pushing and pulling and whispering, biting back their moans. Bitty whispering a soft “I love you” into Jack’s ear, the two of them tangled in each other’s arms, just resting and being close…

Oh. Oh, God. That’s what it is. That’s what’s left unfinished.

On Friday night, just before Jack came down, he told Bitty, “Tell me tomorrow.” And Bitty never did. He never did today, either. The moment never came.

Too late now, unless…. But Bitty _said_ he wouldn’t, and he really shouldn’t. He can’t. It’s too risky.

He brushes his teeth. Slips on a pair of loose shorts and a thin tank top. Sighs as he tucks himself into bed. He can’t make time run backward. He can’t recapture lost moments. This is just the way the day has to end, with a sense of promises unkept, things undone. The sooner he falls asleep, the sooner this feeling will go away. Things will feel better in the morning.

Once he falls asleep.

If he can fall asleep.

The house settles with a creak, and outside crickets chirp a bright song, but otherwise it’s silence. Silence that stretches the seconds, making each one slow, torturous. Bitty shifts in bed. Turns over. Stares at the ceiling. Clutches his pillow. And, at last, his heart pounding, sits up in bed and makes a decision.

He creeps to the door, looks into the hallway, then takes the few careful footsteps to Jack's door. He’s careful, tentative as he places his hand on the knob. It turns easily in his hand, without a squeak. Bitty holds his breath and pushes the door open.

Jack's sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, gazing at the door. Smiling.

Emotions fall through Bitty like rain at the sight of him. Jack’s been expecting him. He’s been waiting. Jack knew, somehow, even when Bitty didn’t know himself. It’s heady, the rush of relief and delight and want and overwhelming love, and Bitty grasps the doorframe, his head swimming.

"I-- uh."He fumbles for the right whisper. "I wanted to-- Are you--"

"Bits." The voice, soft, low, musical, wanders through the dark to touch Bitty's ears. "Come here."

"I-- uh--" But Bitty wants, with every nerve singing in his body right now he _wants_ , and he's crossing the room, barely even feeling the slats of the wood against his bare feet.

Jack's got him caught up in an instant, hands on his back and hip, pulling him close. Their mouths come together in a rush. The kiss deepens within an instant. Bitty whimpers and lets Jack stroke his tongue again and again, thrilling to the hot pulse of it, feeling his belly fill with sweetness at each swipe.

Jack leans back, pulls Bitty with him, and Bitty's world goes funny and diagonal for a few crazy seconds before he realizes he's on top of Jack, legs bracketing Jack’s thighs. His fingers are dug into the hollows of Jack's shoulders, pressing soft divots into the skin. Jack's hands are on his hips, rubbing small circles, and Jack's kissing him, long searching kisses. His lips are soft against Bitty's, his tongue sweet as it takes small tastes, lets Bitty taste back. Bitty hears a soft noise in the dark and realizes it came from his own throat. The discovery makes him moan again.

“Shh.” Jack pushes the admonition against his mouth, his chin, his throat. Bitty collapses on top of him, breathing heavily into his ear. Jack’s giving him shivers, goosebumps, chills and heat all at once. How he’s supposed to stay silent he doesn’t know. Everything’s so _real_ , hot and wonderful, and Jack’s so present beneath him. It’s that same strange sense he had in the car earlier today -- that this is happening _now_ , in this very moment -- and it overwhelms him entirely. He presses his face into Jack’s neck, muffling his moans, and tries to soak in every aspect of the moment.

Jack’s insatiable beneath him, hands reaching everywhere, mouth hungry and incessant on his skin. Jack’s fingers mold against the curve of his back, hiking up his shirt and spreading wide to trace his spine. They travel south, cupping his ass in the short shorts, lingering on his thighs. Then back up to glide along his forearms to his shoulders. Bitty experiences his touch as though it’s everywhere at once. He breathes shallowly into the juncture between neck and shoulder, fingers pressing at Jack’s hairline, trying to stay still as the shudders wrack him.

“Your shirt,” Jack whispers into the darkness between them. Bitty nods and sits up to toss it off. Immediately Jack’s hands go to his sides, then his stomach, then slide up over the plane of his chest. Bitty bites his lip and tilts his head skyward. Oh, Lord. Jack’s hands on him. Just… _yes._

A shift beneath him, a creak of the guest bed, and Jack’s sitting up again. Bitty folds his legs around Jack’s waist, nestling in close to him. Now Jack’s got a lapful of Bitty like he’d had in the car today. Only now there’s no clothing between them, and they’re pressed chest to chest, stomach to stomach.

For long, silent seconds they just hold each other. Skin talking to skin everywhere. It feels so good, so natural and so right, tears come to Bitty’s eyes.

This is the moment.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, “oh, Jack, I love you.”

Jack stills. He pulls back from the embrace. For a terrifying instant Bitty’s afraid he’s got it all wrong.

But Jack’s smile glows in the dimness. He presses a soft kiss to Bitty’s lips, cradling Bitty’s face in one gentle, cupped palm.

“I love you, too,” he murmurs. He touches his forehead to Bitty’s. In the dimness, they smile at each other. Bitty’s heart swells with the rightness of it. This is all they needed, this soft simple moment, space to breathe, and the words came as natural as rain.

Jack leans in to kiss him again. It starts easy, clean, but then Jack’s hands are on him and Bitty’s calm dissolves. Whimpering into the kiss, he presses forward, locking them together, lips and legs and warm skin. His balance goes; his world shifts. In another moment he’s down on the bed, Jack on top of him, all the wonderful weight of Jack pinning him down stomach and hips and thighs. Bitty’s legs are still locked around Jack’s waist. Their cocks are touching again. Bitty closes his eyes, hissing, and just feels it.

Jack kisses downward, now tugging at Bitty’s lower lip with his teeth, now placing dots of kisses at the tip of his chin, now in the hollow of his throat. When Jack starts to lay hot kisses along the plane of his chest, Bitty sucks in a breath. Jack lifts one hand and thumbs against one of Bitty’s nipples. A dim flicker of lightning flashes its way down Bitty’s spine. He squeezes his eyes shut and arches off the bed, his head tipping back on the pillow.

Jack’s moving down the bed, on knees and elbows, and a seed of anticipation starts to burrow into Bitty’s gut. Oh, God, Jack’s still kissing at his skin, down his sternum, at his belly, licking just below his navel. And… and now Jack’s thumbing at the waistband of his shorts and…

“Can I?” Hands tug. Jack’s breath is hot on the thin fabric. Bitty grits his teeth and stifles a groan.

He cranes his neck to look down the bed. Jack’s face upturned and pleading at his hips. Bitty’s erection, jutting up in undisguised want. As Bitty watches, Jack’s gaze flickers downward. He dips his head, presses a kiss to it through the cloth. “Okay?” he murmurs.

Bitty takes a fistful of sheets and squeezes hard. “O-- okay,” he whispers. He lifts his hips to allow Jack to pull off  the shorts, and Lord, that.. that’s Jack leaning down to his dick and…

Their eyes meet. Jack’s lips part. Bitty bites his lip hard and collapses down onto the pillow.

One kiss against his skin, velvet-soft on the head of his cock. Bitty holds his breath.

More. More kisses. A sweep of tongue, circling the head. A lick against the underside. Jack’s breath, soft and hot, against him. Thumbs pressing into his thighs, enough pressure to hold him down when Bitty tries to lift his hips toward the warmth. He can’t help himself. The heat, the wetness, the everything. It’s _so good._

“Jack,” he whispers. “Oh, my God.”

Jack hums, soft sound vibrating from his lips into Bitty’s skin. He takes Bitty’s head into his mouth now, wet suction and impossible heat. It’s too much and not enough, and Bitty bucks his hips forward, only the firm press of Jack’s hands keeping him from fucking into Jack’s mouth impatiently. “ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers. It’s a word he may _never_ have used under this roof. But no other will do.

Wet stripes of licks down his shaft now, tongue curling around to play at the knot of the vein, and sucking kisses at the root next. Jack isn’t just sucking him off, Bitty thinks with whatever fragments of his brain are left. He’s exploring Bitty, enjoying him, loving on him. When Jack buries a soft moan in the crux of his thighs, the realization flashes through Bitty’s broken mind: this is turning Jack on. Bitty can even feel the jut of Jack’s erection against his bare leg.

He forces in air, forces it out again, keeps his throat tight so he doesn’t make noise by accident. Jack takes him into his mouth, head and then more and then _oh Lord_ he’s enveloped in Jack’s mouth and Bitty’s going to die. It’s better than his hand has ever been, better even than fumbling teenage explorations with a sneakily bought bottle of lube. It’s _heat_ and wetness and pulling sucking tension. Bitty cards his free hand through Jack’s hair. “Oh, _honey_ ,” he murmurs.

At the sound, Jack tenses, his hands tightening. For an instant, he pauses, and the press of his hips against Bitty’s legs intensifies. Then he’s back, sucking Bitty down with more intensity and vigor than before. The sensation is welling inside Bitty’s balls and his belly, and Bitty’s arching with the feel of it. “Yes,” he whispers as fiercely as he can into the hushed air, “yes, _yes._ ” His hand tightens in Jack’s hair, a warning.

Jack’s response is to take him in so deep Bitty can feel the ring of his lips at the root. “Oh, _God_ ,” he hisses hard into the air. Jack’s mouth tightens around him, his tongue warm and taut against Bitty’s shaft. It’s too much. Bitty comes, arching up so hard he breaks the solid grip of Jack’s hands. His mouth stretches into a silent scream as his head tips back. For an instant he’s frozen, the world breaking around him.

Then he’s shuddering, he’s spilling over. Jack’s mouth is still hot around him, and Bitty feels the tightness of his throat as he swallows, unfazed. Bitty whispers “Lord, _Lord_ ,” shaking, pulling his fingers through Jack’s hair. Where did Jack learn to… _no_ , never mind, Bitty doesn’t want to know, he’s just grateful. Blissed out and grateful.

Jack pulls off him slowly and presses a kiss to his thigh. Then he works his way back up Bitty’s body and presses a chaste, closed-mouth kiss to Bitty’s lips. Soft kisses to his cheek, a nibble at his ear, then another kiss on Bitty’s mouth. Jack tries to be chaste again, but Bitty won’t have it. He licks at the seam of Jack’s mouth, prying his lips open. _Oh_. That must be the taste of himself, salty and odd, but not bad. Not bad at all. He licks deep into Jack’s mouth to show he’s not afraid of it.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, “honey, thank you, that was… thank you, I love you, thank you so much.”

“Bits,” Jack murmurs. There’s an edge of want to his voice, and he presses his hips against Bitty’s. The line of him, hard and insistent, gives Bitty a chill.

“Honey.” Bitty kisses him. Oh, but he feels good, limbs all loose, body flushed, the aftermath of a sweet ache still dimming in his gut. He presses a palm to Jack’s chest, slides it down to his stomach. Maybe he could...

Jack’s breath hitches, and his brows knit. He lets a soft sound escape into the air. “Bits, I have to,” he starts. Then he’s squirming, wriggling out of his shorts, kicking them off into the dark space around the bed. A thrill goes through Bitty. They’re both completely naked, together, for the first time. Bitty might have been able to weasel out of calling this afternoon their first time, but he doesn’t think he can avoid it tonight. Not with Jack’s body pressed against his, not a stitch between them. And this will do. This will definitely do for a decent first time, with Bitty’s body still singing, and Jack now canting his body toward Bitty’s, silently begging.

“Honey, let me,” Bitty whispers. Jack  catches his mouth in a kiss, nods, groans. Bitty shushes him. His hand is still flat on Jack’s stomach. He slides it down, slow, careful.

The tip of Jack’s cock bumps his wrist. Bitty sucks in a breath. He's _seen_ , and he's _heard_ , but that's so different than being able to _touch_...

"I've never done this before," he whispers, even though Jack already knows. A piece of him is shouting in his ear as he reaches down. _This is an Important Moment! These few seconds will never come again!_

And then his fingers wrap around Jack's length and oh, oh, everything is quiet and hot and beautiful.

Jack is so hot. So hard. Bitty shouldn't be surprised by any of this. He knows what his own cock feels like. But touching Jack -- it's -- it's another planet, knowing that all that heat is for him.. He lets out a sigh, and it shudders on its way. His fingers curl, loosen and re-curl, and Jack makes a noise and shifts next to him. Bitty pauses, uncertain. Is he doing it wrong? Is Jack okay? Could he be hurting him somehow?

"Bits," Jack hisses hotly. "Bits, oh, my God, ple--please."

"Please?" Bitty looks up at him, worried.

" _Ahh_." Jack's brow furrows as the sound comes out. His hips twitch, his cock moving in Bitty's hand. It takes a second motion before Bitty realizes what Jack's trying to do. He's thrusting, trying to get friction. Thwarted by Bitty's unmoving hand. Taking in a short breath, Bitty forces himself into motion, shucking his palm and fingers upward.

Jack's cry is so sharp Bitty's afraid it's one of pain. "Jack?"

"More," is all Jack says, and his hips cant upward. His mouth hangs open. His breaths come fast.

Bitty moves then, moves like _he_ likes it, staccato hard surges mixed with soft bursts of attention on the head and ridge. Jack's reactions are like nothing he could have imagined. Jack twitches, thrusts his whole body toward Bitty's hand, bites his lip and groans. Bitty can feel the rumble of it in the pit of his stomach. He watches reverently, amazed to be shown this, amazed to see the beauty that is Jack Zimmermann undone.

He leans in and kisses at Jack’s shoulder. Jack twitches, hisses out a soft _fff_ sound through his teeth, ruts into Bitty’s hand some more. Memories flash through Bitty’s head: Jack touching himself on Skype, Bitty murmuring endearments at him, Jack shuddering and moaning as he comes. Bitty wants to see it, he wants to feel it for real. Kissing Jack’s neck softly, Bitty curls against him, pressing his lips just below Jack’s ear. “Honey,” he says, soft and gentle. “Oh, honey, you feel so good. You look so gorgeous like this.”

Jack twitches all over, his body shaking minutely. The bed creaks beneath his weight.

"Do you remember doing this over Skype?" he whispers. "You showing me?"

"Yeah." Jack groans the word, his eyes rolling skyward as Bitty twists his wrist and delivers a hard, firm stroke. "You asked me, you said, touch yourself for me."

“And you looked so gorgeous. God, I loved watching you, sweetheart. Loved watching you come for me.”

“Bits.” The name pushed through tense lips. “ _God._ ”

Bitty strokes him a little harder, remembering the sharp motions of Jack’s wrist, his fingers squeezing. “Will you show me now, sweetheart? I want to feel it.” He kisses at Jack’s ear, nipping the lobe. “I want to make you come.”

“Then -- _more,_ ” Jack manages. Bitty works harder. He’s starting to feel a burn in his upper arm, but it doesn’t matter, not with Jack gasping and shifting and arching underneath him. Bitty lifts his head and watches, fascinated by every motion, every trembling muscle. Another stroke, another feather of fingers against the head of Jack’s cock, and Jack seizes up, his whole body taut. An expression of silent agony contorts his face.

Then he’s coming, spilling through and over Bitty’s hand, hips jerking erratically. Bitty’s heart speeds up as he watches and _feels_. That’s Jack’s come warm and wet on his fingers, this is Jack’s body slowly uncoiling from a peak of tension. Bitty did that. His fingers, his mouth, his whispers, _he_ took Jack to that height. The sense of power is dizzying.

Jack leans up and cranes his neck for a kiss. Bitty delivers, and Jack kisses him back hard and full. Then he leans over the edge of the bed and finds the already-stained pair of boxers from this afternoon. Using it as a towel, he mops himself up, allows Bitty to wipe his hand on it. At last, clean and comfortable, he tucks Bitty against his body and relaxes.

Bitty slides his arm across Jack’s chest. Everything’s been amazing, but this is uniquely so: realizing how well they fit, Bitty’s head at the juncture of chest and shoulder, one leg bent over Jack’s thigh. It’s like they were made to come together like this. Jack’s chest rises and falls beneath him, and Bitty wonders if they really _were_ made for each other. It’s enough to make a boy believe in fate.

“I’d, ah,” he starts, “I’d better not fall asleep here. Too many questions in the morning.”

“Mm.” Jack kisses at the crown of his head. “I know. Just stay a few minutes.”

“All right, twist my arm,” Bitty says with a grin. He squeezes Jack, kissing his chest. “I get to sleep in your bed in Providence, though, don’t I? I wish I could just jump ahead three weeks. Jack, how long can I stay? I’m so excited to see your place. Oh, I am going to outfit that kitchen for you, mister. It’s going to be--”

“Bits.” A laugh vibrates through Jack. “Shh.”

“Right? Why am I talking? Something is making me want to talk. Even though I’m not nervous, you know I usually talk a lot when I’m nervous, but I’m--” He yawns. “--actually very relaxed. But so excited at the same time, I suppose I just needed to get that out of my system. Now I feel like I can finally kick back and be myself. Hopefully I’m not _too_ myself, don’t want to scare you away. But honestly, if you don’t know me by now, I don’t know what I can...”

Jack rolls onto his side. Bitty’s dislodged from his comfortable position; he scrambles to keep from being thrown off the bed. “Bits.” Jack presses a sound kiss to his mouth. “You’re fine. I love you. Now shh.”

Bitty melts. “Oh, gosh. I don’t know that I’m gonna get used to you sayin--”  For once, he has the presence of mind to shush himself.  “I love you too, Jack.” He presses against Jack’s shoulder, smiling into the skin, and is quiet. Eventually Jack rolls back, pulling Bitty with him, back into that perfect, comfortable position. Bitty closes his eyes. This, yes. This is how he wanted to end the day.

It’s still going to hurt to let Jack go home. But at least, now, everything that needed to be said and done is out of the way. Tomorrow, Bitty will kiss Jack goodbye with dry eyes and a full heart.


	3. Chapter 3

Bitty wakes up with a warm, curling feeling low in his belly. He blinks against the morning sunshine. This is his bed -- somehow he must have made it out of Jack’s embrace and back across the hall, but he must have been half-asleep, because the last thing he remembers is dozing against Jack’s chest. Now, he closes his eyes and drinks in the memory.

Jack, deliciously warm and firm beneath him. The two of them whispering in the dark, the scent of sex still hanging heavy in the air. The words _I love you_ still new and glimmering, every touch an ember on the hearthfire glowing in his heart. So much comfort and familiarity, even with all that was new and freshly discovered between them. They’d finally cracked the mystery of how to fit into each other’s space, and Bitty had felt a kind of enlightenment, as though he’d finally experienced perfection. He conjures it up again, hand sliding across his pillow as though it’s Jack’s chest, nuzzling into Jack’s shoulder, remembering.

Oh, but why remember when the real thing is just across the hall? Bitty sits up. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to just slip into Jack’s bed -- maybe while he’s still sleeping -- and nestle into his embrace? The thought gives him energy, and he slips out of bed and stretches, arms in the air. Yawning, he goes to the door. The smell of coffee wafts up from downstairs. Bitty sniffs appreciatively, then crosses to the guest room and opens the door.

The bed’s empty. So much for that dream. But of _course_ Jack’s already up. This is _Jack_ , after all.

Bitty wanders downstairs to find that Mama’s up too. She and Jack are standing at the kitchen counter, both nursing cups of coffee, quiet. When the tile creaks under Bitty’s foot, they both turn. “Oh, good morning, Dicky,” Mama says after a beat of surprised silence. Why she’s surprised to see her own son in the morning, Bitty has no idea.

“Good morning,” Bitty says brightly. “Morning, Jack.”

Jack’s eyes are soft. “Hey,” he says. His voice is almost painfully gentle.

“So!” Bitty claps his hands. “Breakfast? I suppose you’ll be wanting eggs, and far be it from me to deny _you_ your protein.” He starts to march toward the refrigerator.

“Actually,” Jack says, and Bitty stops in his tracks. “Maybe I could help you make something?”

“Oh!” The syllable shakes loose from Bitty’s tongue before he even has a chance to process what Jack’s just said. It may very well be the last thing he ever expected to hear from Jack. “What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know.” Jack shrugs. There’s an ease in the movement of his shoulders, and Bitty thinks brightly that perhaps life in Georgia has relaxed him a bit. “I miss your game day pancakes.”

“Jack.” Bitty feigns shock. “You don’t mean to tell me that you’re willing to help me make carbohydrates?”

“Why not?” Jack turns back to Mama. “Did B… Eric ever tell you about the time we had to do a food project together? I nearly ruined his grade.”

“Oh, you did _not._ Mama, he did _fine._ What should we do, blueberry pancakes? Do we have blueberries? Jack, check for me, will you?” Bitty’s already moving around the kitchen, pulling flour and sugar from the pantry. Baking powder, salt, a bowl, good, good, good. He can hear music as he whirls from cabinet to pantry to drawer, pulling out a pan, a spatula, oil. The unique music of the kitchen. Bitty knows it by heart, but that never lessens the magic. He strikes all the needed notes, creating a symphony through stirring and spooning and pouring.

“I’m going to go see what’s keeping Richard,” Mama says, heading toward the open kitchen doorway. “You call us when breakfast is ready.” There’s a lilt to her words, and Bitty thinks he hears the tail end of a soft laugh as she makes her way upstairs.

The minute she’s gone, he whirls on Jack. “Okay, spill it.”

“What?” Jack’s leaning over in the fridge, his butt sticking out. It looks all the more obscene for the fact that it’s Jack’s ridiculously large ass. Bitty takes a half a moment to appreciate.

But he won’t be deterred for long. “ _Spill_ it,” he repeats. “What were you and my mother talking about?”

Jack straightens up, carton of fresh blueberries in hand. “What? Bittle, nothing. We were making small talk.”

“Mm- _hm._ ” Bitty swipes in and snatches the carton. “Butter too, please. Grab one of those bowls and crack an egg into it. What _kind_ of small talk?”

“Just small talk.” Jack’s brow is knotted in confusion.  “She asked how I’d enjoyed my time here.”

“Okay, okay, whatever you say.” Bitty grabs a small pan and ignites a flame on the oven. “Measure out a cup and a half of that flour into that bowl, honey.”

Jack does as directed. “She’s proud of you,” he says.

Bitty whirls. “See, I knew it wasn’t just small talk!”

Jack’s gaze sweeps over to the doorway. In another instant, he’s stepping forward and taking Bitty’s lips in a kiss as sweet and warm as coffee, as soft as the butter softening in the pan. Bitty has to whimper into it. “Bittle, relax,” Jack says, pulling away. His eyes are shining. “She just said she was glad you were doing well at school. She thanked me for taking care of you.”

“Taking _care_ of me?” Bitty strives mightily to be offended by this.

Jack laughs. “I told her you took care of me just as much. And the whole team.”

“Hrm.” Bitty pulls the melted butter off the flame. “I suppose I am looking for trouble, a little bit.”

“Just a bit,” Jack agrees. He kisses Bitty’s ear. “Tell me what to do next.”

Bitty directs him to pour more of the dry ingredients, and Jack obeys. When Bitty pours in the egg and butter, they stand side by side as Jack dutifully stirs the mixture. The proximity of Jack’s body is nice, and, Bitty notices, the pang of desperate arousal is absent; in the wake of everything they’ve done last night, it’s perfectly nice to just stand next to each other, chatting lightly back and forth. Bitty pops in small handfuls of fresh blueberries, and Jack stirs them in; they laugh about the latest on the group chat.  Then on to the stove, where Jack proves himself surprisingly adept at knowing when to flip the pancakes. Bitty applauds as tantalizing circle after circle of puffy, light cake lands on the serving plate. Jack looks the way he looks when he scores an OT goal. It’s beautiful.

When he finally calls his parents down to breakfast, it’s through peals of laughter. They must look a sight, the two of them -- doubled over laughing in the middle of the kitchen, Bitty gasping for breath, Jack trying so hard not to grin as he wipes his eyes.  They carry the pancakes to the table as Jack goes on with the story. “And then Tater says, _what? Is normal in Russia.”_

“ _No_.” Bitty says between gasps. “That can’t be normal. Anywhere. Even in Russia.” He turns to his parents. “Hi… hi, sorry, go on and sit down.”

“Well, normal for Tater is different from everybody else’s normal.” Jack hefts the butter and maple syrup, bringing them toward the table. Bitty wants to photograph and frame the image of Jack Zimmermann happily toting fat and sugar. It may never happen again.

“Is this one of your teammates, Jack?” Mama asks politely as they all sit down. Jack recounts the story again, which sends Bitty into another round of uncontrollable laughter. He is going to have to meet this Tater guy someday.

The pancakes came out great. Bitty congratulates Jack heartily on them. “Jack did all the flipping and most of the mixing too,” he says proudly.

“I had a good coach,” Jack replies, glancing at Bitty out of the corner of his eye. Bitty feels a curl of warmth low in his stomach. It was like this last night, too -- sitting at the table with his parents, knowing that he and Jack had shared something special just before -- but there’s an added layer of comfort to it now, something that makes that ball of happiness inside him glow just a little bit harder. This boy loves him. This boy told him so, and showed him, with hands and mouth and body, and now here they are just being normal. Understated. There’s no need for dramatics. They know how they feel.

After breakfast, Bitty jumps up. “Mama, you can leave the dishes for me for this afternoon. I’m going to go up and help Jack pack.”

“What?” Jack starts. “Bits, I only have the on--”

“I’m going to _help you pack_ ,” Bitty repeats, with the sort of emphasis that will brook no argument.

They wander up the stairs, and Bitty sits on the guest bed as Jack finishes folding the last of his clothes into the duffel bag. He’s quiet, a slight smile painting his lips, and Bitty watches him with a mix of emotions. Contentment, and sorrow that he’s about to leave, but also a small, tentative something that’s been burrowing in his chest and is now trying to escape through his throat.

Bitty lets it. “Hey, listen, now, Jack, about-- about last night,” he says. All of a sudden his fingers need something to do, and he clutches the comforter, balling it up and then smoothing it down again.

“Mm-hm?” Jack eyes him, when comes to sit down next to him. “Last night was nice,” he says after another beat of uncharacteristic silence from Bitty.

“No, it was, absolutely it was,” Bitty says. “I just. That is, I don’t regret it. What we did or, or what I said. I meant it. That’s… that’s all I really wanted you to know, Jack, is that I meant it.”

Jack slides a hand under his chin, tugs until Bitty’s looking directly at him. “I meant it, too,” he says.

Bitty takes in a breath. “Right,” he says. “Right. Good. I mean, good, I’m glad. I -- um --”

Jack’s gaze is too intense, too tender. To imagine this is the boy who yelled at him through half of frog year. To imagine it’s _him_ who’s the recipient of that gaze. It blows Bitty’s mind. “What is it?”

“Can I--” Bitty bites his lip. “Can I hold you, just, just for a second?”

In response, Jack envelops him with his arms, pulling him in tight. Bitty’s engulfed by him, by all the warmth of his body, the stretch of his limbs. He gives a little sigh into the front of Jack’s shirt and stretches his arms around Jack, forearms and hands pressed against the back of his shirt. “I’m gonna miss you,” he says, even though it’s the dumbest, most obvious thing in the whole world. He searches for words to follow on and lessen the impact. “I mean, Lord, I’m going to back on that bus with those kids every day, starting tomorrow, and I’m going to have to get my mind out of the gutter after all the things we did. I mean. You know which things. I‘m not talking about the skating.”

Jack laughs, a soft, low huff of sound against Bitty’s ear. “I’m glad we got to skate together, though,” he says. “It was nice to be on the ice with you. “ He takes a beat. “It was nice to be everywhere else with you, too. In the backs of… vehicles.”

“Your romantic talk needs some work,” Bitty says flatly, but he’s grinning, and he can’t help but squeeze Jack that much tighter. “I feel like if I hold you tight enough, a part of you is gonna stay, even when you’re gone.”

“A part of me will.” Jack presses his lips to Bitty’s hairline. “And three weeks will go by fast. You let me know when you find a flight to Boston and I’ll pick you up, all right?”

“Mm-hm.” Bitty sighs, tipping his head forward so he can rest his forehead on Jack’s shoulder. “Can we still Skype? I mean, before I go up? It doesn’t have to be every day. But… I’d like it. Whenever you can.”

Jack pulls back and holds Bitty at arm’s length. “What’s wrong with every day?” He looks truly puzzled.

Bitty has to grin. “Nothing! Nothing’s wrong with every day. I just didn’t want to assume… never mind! I’m being ridiculous. _You’re_ being ridiculous. We’re two ridiculous human beings right now, Jack Zimmermann, don’t look at me like that. I was trying to be polite, in case you get busy, with the advertising and all the--”

Jack leans in, quick as a hummingbird, and kisses him soundly. The kiss leaves Bitty dazed, a little dizzy and short of breath. “I’ll call you tonight,” Jack says, and this time it’s _his_ tone of voice that will allow no dissent. Bitty nods, his lips still halfway pursed.

He glances at the wall clock. “Oh, gosh. We’d better get going. The traffic’s going to be awful getting to the airport.” Jumping up, he takes hold of Jack’s bag. “Here, I’ll carry this out to the car for you. You’re sure you didn’t leave anything? I can always send up anything you’ve forgotten. Oh, and let me send you with some pie, assuming the TSA doesn’t confiscate it. I’ll  just pop downstairs and put some in a Tupperware for you. I’ll meet you out by the car, okay?”

“Okay.” Jack is smiling at him, but he doesn’t say anything further -- until Bitty is at the door. “Hey, Bits?”

“Hm?” Bitty halfway turns.

Jack grazes his teeth over his lower lip and takes a breath. “Love you,” he says.

Bitty’s heart nearly breaks out of his chest. His arms start to tremble. Grinning sunnily at Jack, he manages a hoarse, “Love you too.”

Then, shakily but happily, he descends the staircase in search of pie.

* * *

The drive out to Atlanta is just as horrible as Bitty feared. It’s not five minutes onto the main highway (after Jack kisses Mama and shakes Coach’s hand goodbye) before they’re sitting bumper to bumper, the Georgia heat wafting in despite all pretense of air conditioning. Bitty entertains a brief, selfish hope of Jack missing his flight and having to stay another night. Then he shouts it down. First of all, Jack has enough disposable income that he can just buy a seat on the next flight out. Second of all, Jack’s got a life of his own, too. Sojourns in Madison, as nice as they are, were never meant to last forever.

Jack scans the radio band until he finds a station he likes. Bitty grins and bears it. He supposes there’s _some_ art to this kind of music, guitar and twanging voices and depressing lyrics and all. But this seems a lousy time and place to be listening to a song about losing one’s truck and one’s girl and one’s dog. Bitty amuses himself by trying to imagine how Beyonce would cover it.

“Boy, the Haus is going to be a lot quieter without you playing this nonsense all the time,” he mentions lightly. “I wonder what kind of music Chowder plays?”

“Haha, I guess you’ll find out,” Jack replies. “I think Lardo’s into some alternative, experimental stuff. I never really got the point of it, but you can dance to it, so I think you’ll like it fine.”

“I’m still afraid Lardo’s going to wake us all up at 4 and make us do drills before practice,” Bitty says with a laugh. “A manager in the team Haus! I wonder if it’s been done before. Not that she doesn’t deserve it. Hmm! Maybe she’ll try to repaint my kitchen.”

“You’ll have to let me know how it goes.” Jack has a wistful smile on his face. “It’s going to be strange, not being in the Haus.”

“It’s going to be strange not having you there,” Bitty rejoins. It really feels like the end of an era, knowing he’ll be arriving at a Haus without Shitty or Jack just around the corner. And Chowder and Lardo are going to bring a whole new spirit to the place. The five Haus denizens will learn to strike a new balance, create a new atmosphere together. Bitty finds he’s looking forward to it, as much as he will miss the old, familiar dynamic. Something’s ended, but something new is just beginning.

And that’s the same, he thinks now, for him and Jack. They’ve had their fumbling first kisses, they’ve had their stretches of long-distance-relationship loneliness. And now, this weekend, they’ve learned to become comfortable in each other’s space. Everything they’ve done and experienced over the past 48 hours has been a beginning. There’s so much more of it all still to come. There’s so much to look forward to.

“Tell me about Providence,” he says softly. “What are you going to take me to see? Do you have favorite restaurants yet? I want to hear about everything.”

Jack lights up then, and he goes on a rambling set of tangents about everything from his neighbors to the long promenade in front of the arena to the frightening-looking alley around the corner from his building. As the traffic crawls along, Jack paints a picture of a town he’s still getting to know but is already half in love with. Bitty’s excitement increases. He’s got a bit of wanderlust in him -- even two-hour car trips to competitions were delightful adventures, and going to Samwell was a dream come true -- so he’s all ready to find a new place to love. Maybe, someday, he and Jack can travel around together.  Drive to tucked-away out-of-town places where nobody knows Jack’s face or name. Get on a boat and sail to an island without a name. Fly around the world, even.

They’re still just beginning together, Bitty thinks one more time as the airport’s exit nears. They still have so much ahead of them.

International airports were not made for long, romantic goodbyes. Bitty’s actually cursing at the traffic as he tries to get into the right lane for the terminal, then tries to find a curbside spot without getting swiped by cars going in and out all around him. When he does bring the car to a halt outside the terminal, though, he hesitates. Maybe, if he didn’t shift the gear into park. Maybe, if he just drove away right now. Maybe they could circle the airport just one more time before Jack has to go.

He behaves himself, parking the car and turning off the engine. They unfasten their seatbelts. Jack turns to face Bitty, silent. Bitty meets his gaze. Dim bells ring in his head. _This is it, this is it._

“So I’ll call you tonight,” Jack says, his voice rough and uncertain.

“Yeah,” Bitty says. ‘“Okay.”

“I guess --” Jack looks around, as though something in the car will give him a clue as to how to proceed. He finally settles on lifting one hand and placing it on Bitty’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later in the month, then?”

“Mm-hm.” Bitty looks at the stretched-out length of Jack’s arm, a bridge between them. With a touch like this, it feels like they’re already a million miles apart.

Once, before, they had this moment. Holding each other at arm’s length, just before Jack had to go. They gazed at each other, and then someone moved and someone else followed and they were kissing again, brief and sweet. That moment was drenched in magic. This one feels almost drably ordinary in comparison. Bitty doesn’t think that beautiful instant of synchronous motion will come, not this time.

So to hell with it. He launches himself forward into Jack’s arms.

His mouth seeks out Jack’s; they kiss, in full view of the traffic going by, heedless of who could see or recognize.The gear shift is crushing Bitty’s delicate parts, but he doesn’t give a damn. He needs this, and if the way Jack is clinging to him is any indication, Jack needs it too. After their kiss breaks, they hold each other tight, Bitty’s eyes squeezed shut, his lips pressed up against Jack’s ear.

“I love you, Jack,” he whispers. “I love you so much and I’m going to miss you so much.”

“Me, too,” Jack murmurs. “It was so good to be close to you, Bits. So damn good.” He kisses Bitty’s cheekbone, his jaw, his ear. “Be good,” he says in a low voice, and Bitty has to laugh. “I’m serious. Don’t drown in the lake at camp. Don’t fall into your own oven. I need you.”

Bitty’s laughing, but he feels the _I need you_ keenly, maybe more so even than _I love you_. “I’ll be careful,” he says. “You too. I want you in fine working order when I arrive in Providence, you hear?”

“Deal.” Jack squeezes him once more, then drinks a long kiss from his lips, and this one, Bitty knows, is the last. Jack climbs out of the car, opens the back door to pull out his duffel bag, then slams it shut and lobs Bitty a final wave through the open front door. “See you soon, Bits.”

Bitty can still feel the heat of Jack’s arms wrapped around him. But this is the end. There’ll be no more contact, no more closeness, not for a month. “I love you,” he says hurriedly, because it wants to be said one more time.

Jack glows at him. “I love you, too,” he says, and smiles, and closes the car door.

He doesn’t turn back as he walks into the terminal, but Bitty stares after him anyway, unwilling to let go until he can no longer see even a trace of him. It’s over. Their weekend is over, and Jack’s gone again. But in his wake, the weight of the whole weekend -- everything they did and were to each other -- gathers around him like a cloak. Bitty sighs, tries to stop smiling, fails, and inches out of the curbside spot with a grin on his face.

Bitty hurries home through the lighter traffic, his heart a whirl of sorrow and expectations. Life doesn’t stop when Jack’s gone. He still has dishes to do and a guest bed to unmake, one that still smells like Jack when Bitty furtively presses his nose into the sheets. Signs of Jack’s presence linger in the kitchen, in his bedroom where that one history book sits at a jaunty angle from all the others. Memories remain outside the house, on the roads and in the field. That piece of Jack, the one Bitty thought he could retain if he held Jack tight enough, is everywhere. It’s surely going to get him through three weeks of Jack’s absence. That, and his camp kids, and baking and texting, will be there for him.

And if all that weren’t enough, when Bitty’s phone flashes “8:30” in soft white letters, his tablet lights up with an incoming Skype call.


End file.
